Only sometimes

Sometimes I just don’t want to.

I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want to connect with them. I don’t want to exercise. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to cook, or clean, or tidy. I don’t want to take care of myself or anyone else.

I’m tired. It’s too much, and I’m tired.

But then I remind myself to take one step; one small bite; one small move in a direction. Because if I don’t take care of myself, it doesn’t get better.

Sometimes, I have to stop and I need to rest. Sometimes I choose to let things be undone and disconnected because that’s healthy. But it can’t go on forever. I have to get back up and take care of myself and let myself be taken care of and … Oh, that’s the hard one.

Sometimes I just don’t want to.

I don’t want to let you in. I don’t want to open up and connect. I just want to sit in it by myself and feel comfortable in the known, rather than be uncomfortable in the unknowns of becoming known. Ya know?

This isn’t a hopeless sort of thing. It’s just a normal type of sting. Sometimes, I’m tired and I want to throw in the towel for a minute, and that’s ok. If only, sometimes.