taking time

Four hours and eleven minutes. Twenty days. The former reflects the time it took to build a bed (with drawers on wheels!) by myself today. The latter reflects the time it took to sit down and write this. I procrastinated both for far too long.

That's not the problem.

The problem stems from what I have done. I have walked away from who I was-- who I am. I have spent to much time in solitude despite offers of socialization. I have succumbed to the darkness that is depression and anxiety, without putting up any fight.

Today I tightened my fists.

When I left my last job on July 26, I felt that it was the best decision I'd made in a long time. I still feel that way. The decisions to follow were not. Sure, some days have been great. I've completed two rounds of interviews for a dream fellowship. I'll know the decision within a week. I joined a CrossFit gym immediately after my first class, and I love it. I already feel stronger, both mentally and physically. More than that, I feel like I'm finding a new community.

I've also bought the domain for this blog (yay!) and started to transform it. The most significant moment occurred two nights ago. It likely seemed small. It might now. But for me? It was the moment that my scrambling thoughts clicked together for a moment.

Since the day the swimming lesson instructor threw me into the deep end, I have feared being surrounded by water. I find comfort in watching it, by appreciating it from a distance. But there's something that makes me feel out of control by the thought of entrance. 

Two nights ago, I swam in a lake. I forgot to take off my glasses, so I didn't go underwater. I avoided going beyond the point of my feet touching the bottom. But I did it. I laughed and smiled. I heard my boyfriend's support and felt his strength as he lifted me up over and over again. And I realized what piece of myself I let go of when I needed it most.

"Just do the damn thing," was the mantra I used to say. I would mentally repeat it as I walked up to a mirror, stood in a power pose, and said, "You can do this." Then I would walk away and do it. Whatever it was. Even if it scared me, or had too many steps, or seemed impossible. I would show up, for myself or others, because I can do difficult things.

That's what I let go of-- doing difficult things.

Today I started over.

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When I woke up, I snoozed my alarm. Eight minutes later, I pressed "Stop" and returned to dreamland. I took nearly three hours from that first alarm to sleep in excess, skip CrossFit, wallow in self pity, and wonder why I can't escape the dense fog in my brain. The thoughts keep pulling me under, into a dark pool that lacks worth.

But I got up. I made food. I watched Gilmore Girls. I continued to read my new second favorite book, Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls: A Memoir by T Kira Madden. Then I told myself, "Just do the damn thing."

Since moving into my own place three weeks ago, I've let boxes sit unopened. Boxes that I packed as well as furniture I recently ordered. I've stared at them and thought, "I'll feel better once this is all put together. Once my apartment is all put together. When it feels livable." I've asked for help. I've waited for the day that everything is done. But I didn't do anything else. I didn't do anything-- until today.

Today I assembled my futon, despite not being able to flip it over for actual use. I built an entire bed(!!!!), despite not being able to carry the mattress into my bedroom. I asked a friend to meet me for dinner, despite everything else that my brain says I should do.

I showed up. I did the damn thing.

Perhaps it won't be as easy tomorrow. I might feel the magnetic pull between the depression and a bed, and I might not be strong enough to break it. I might need more time to rest and less time to work. I might... but I'll still show up.

I will take my time. I'm only 22. It's what I have.

Time to take.