It finally happened. I felt like myself again. After two years of fatigue, depression, and insomnia. I started to exercise, have energy again, want to live my life. I wrote an entire script in two weeks. I vowed I would remember this happiness. Find my way back to this hopeful place no matter what happened in the next few weeks when I returned to the Bay Area to care for my grandmother with dementia.
Easier said than done. Two weeks is all it took to erase my progress.
I’m back home in L.A. now and am so fatigued, I don’t want to leave the house. My hope is gone. I miss my mom. I resent my dad for having a new girlfriend he pressured me to into meeting and for choosing her company over mine when I refused. I am still jobless and perpetually worried about money.
The nightmare continues. How to get back? I should have more viciously defended my recovery, my progress. Instead I put everyone else’s needs ahead of my own, a formula that no longer works. But did it ever?
Not in this new nightmare, this reality that I wake to each day and wish I could wake up again and be somewhere or someone else.