I never thought I'd be so fragile

I am bad at a lot of things. I don't always make the best choices. The way I feel so much, so often, makes the days that I feel nothing seem like blank sheets of paper, laminated so they stick out and make it impossible to mar the surface. If I do things on those days, it is a surface level emotion, not actually sticking proper in my head, if that makes any sense. Those days have, thankfully, been few and far between lately, and yet, that also makes those days seem worse when they pop up. It's almost as though they show up to remind me,
"Hey, guess what? You're still fucked up."

I used to deal with them by wallowing, by letting those days be wasted, even if I had originally had plans. I became the kind of person who would flake out at the last minute, the kind of person who never got around to things, the kind of person who seemed miserable for no damn reason. I hated everything about my life, for no reason. Things were never easy, but there are people out there who have it a lot worse than me. I would remind myself of that often. It never helped, just made me feel worse for feeling so bad for no real reason.

I started getting better at dealing with those days. I would force myself to keep plans, though if it got to be too much, I would say I wasn't feeling well and excuse myself from the situation.

This last one though? I don't know why I was hit so hard by it, except that it showed me that, as numb as I had been feeling, I wasn't the empty husk I had the potential to be when the days were really bad. I was empty this last time, and briefly considered cutting into my skin to see if I could feel anything at all. The only thing that stopped me was knowing that if I started, I probably wouldn't have stopped until I couldn't hold the knife anymore, and the guys would have come home to that, just another mess I would leave them with. 

I haven't had that bad of a day for no reason since I lived with my mother. I haven't felt so overwhelmed and worthless in almost a decade, and even then, I don't remember it being so jarring.

I don't like to actually talk about things of this nature. I can never figure out a way to explain it that doesn't seem over dramatic or like less than what it is. When I take the time to write things out, it is because I need to get it out of my head, to where it is possible for someone, anyone, to read and understand. I've always been bad at saying how I feel, because with my mother, that was always frowned upon. That's why I've never told someone I was saying that I loved them until I was sure, because the words wouldn't come out. Even if I could write it, it didn't mean the same thing until I could say it.

Maybe it was especially bad because I was home alone. Maybe it was bad because my brain started to go through every mistake I have ever made. If I had to guess, I would say it was bad because I don't feel like I have control over my life right now, but I never know why it's bad one day and not another. All I know for sure is that I can't talk or write about it until I've processed as much of it as possible. 

I'm still not 100%, but I will be at some point. That is the important part.