Today has been a slow day.
Stayed in bed until after 10:00 am. Bumbled around to feed the animals, munch some cereal and an apple before bumbling around the internet. All very slow.
Eventually I made my way to the bathtub for a soak. Fio snoozing on the memory foam bathmat while I picked up a Judith Orloff book. Usually I have some set intention, even if it's a simple bubble bath, but today I simply bumbled. No schedule, no goals, no musts.
Laying in the tub, my mind wandering away from the words on the book's pages, I found myself recalling the darkest point of my episode a couple days ago. My suicidal ideations tend to be low-octane. Feeling distant and murky, a cloudy image of a suicide without the step-by-step plotting or realistic how-to, just a dream of escape, dark, but not too dark.
This weekend things were different. A small step in the wrong direction. I had an ideation about a specific knife and my bathtub and my wrists. A classic image of suicide, one that I haven't entertained before even with my history of suicidal episodes.
I was able to tell my husband about the ideas. Shedding light on those dark thoughts helps create distance, sending the dark thoughts skittering away like roaches in a hovel when a light is introduced. Of course, I'm still infested but the thoughts aren't quite as imminent a threat.
The self-injury on my arm is healing. Scabbed over and pulling at the healthy skin around it, aching and warm and sometimes itchy. Annoying and shameful but grounding at times, helping me to remember that I'm not quite "okay," despite what I may say.
So today I'm bumbling. Thankfully not dragged under by dark thoughts but straddling a line, sitting in a place of non-action, not knowing. I don't quite have the buoyancy to move forward in a positive fashion but I'm skeptical enough of my disease's mean nothings to resist the pull downward.
And for now, that's good enough. Not knowing.