The Fine Art of Holding It Together

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m thriving. Really. Absolutely smashing it.

I woke up at 2 p.m. today, which is a solid achievement, considering I intended to stay asleep until evolution took its next leap and humans developed emotional immunity. But alas, biology failed me, and I was rudely awoken by sunlight leaking in through the one window I forgot to cover with a blanket. Tragic.

Anyway, I began the day with my usual wellness ritual: lying motionless in bed and staring at the ceiling, contemplating life, death, and whether it’s socially acceptable to eat cereal directly from the box while lying horizontally. (Spoiler: it is. Just tilt your head right.)

I then checked my phone. Ten unread messages. Naturally, I ignored all of them. Why? Because replying to texts implies you exist, and honestly, some days I’m not ready to commit to that level of participation in the human experience.

I did, however, scroll through Instagram for an hour, which I find is an excellent way to boost morale—provided your idea of "boosting morale" includes watching people live curated, kale-smoothie lives while you debate whether it’s worth brushing your teeth today. (It wasn’t. The toothbrush looked at me weird. I took it personally.)

Eventually, I migrated to the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen. Land of expired groceries and broken promises. I opened the fridge like I was unveiling the Ark of the Covenant. Inside: one limp carrot, some questionable yogurt, and a cold, distant air of neglect. It’s fine. Who needs nourishment when you have crippling existential dread and a steady supply of sarcasm?

Lunch was a beautiful ritual. I stared into space for 45 minutes while a pot of water boiled itself to death. Didn’t cook anything with it. Just watched. Somehow, it felt symbolic.

By 5 p.m., I’d completed all my daily goals, which included: breathing (involuntarily), resisting the urge to scream into a pillow (barely), and pretending I didn’t hear the sound of my own thoughts echoing in a painfully empty apartment. High performance.

People ask me sometimes—“How are you doing?”
To which I reply, “Good! Busy, haha.”
Because “I’m dissolving slowly into a puddle of doubt and detachment, but thanks for asking” doesn’t really pair well with small talk and coffee shop ambiance.

It’s funny how everyone expects you to be functioning. Like, hello? Do you not see the warning signs? Oh wait—that’s right. I made sure you couldn’t. I’ve become an expert at invisibility. My pain wears disguises. It smiles at parties. It tells jokes. It holds the door open for strangers and says, “I’m fine” with all the sincerity of a customer service chatbot.

Some nights I sleep like a baby—waking up every two hours, crying, and unsure of where I am.

Other nights, I just lie there, having philosophical debates with the ceiling fan. Like, if I disappeared tomorrow, would anyone notice before the milk spoiled? And why does my heart feel like it’s wearing wet clothes all the time?

But hey—at least I have hobbies. Like overthinking, regretting things I didn’t say, regretting things I did say, and romanticizing conversations that never happened. And let’s not forget the Olympic sport of pretending not to care when someone forgets you exist.

My calendar is delightfully empty. I look at it and feel comforted by the blank squares. No appointments. No demands. Just wide, open space to sit and listen to the soft hum of “nothing really matters” playing gently in the background of my soul.

I keep the lights dim, by the way. Not because I’m dramatic (though I am), but because brightness feels... intrusive. Too much visibility. Too much expectation. Darkness is gentler. It asks nothing of me. It lets me exist quietly.

Once, I tried to talk about it. About the fog inside. The tiredness that sleep doesn’t touch. The hollow that echoes. But people don’t really like that. It makes them uncomfortable. They shift in their seats and offer platitudes like, “Just think positive!” or “Have you tried yoga?”
Yes, Chad. I’ve tried downward dogging my way out of this black hole, but it turns out depression doesn’t care if your chakras are aligned.

Not that I’m saying I’m depressed. No, no. I’m just... perpetually exhausted from pretending to be okay in a world that claps louder for resilience than it listens to pain. But again, I’m thriving. Living my best life. Eating ice cream straight from the tub and naming the dust bunnies under my bed. 

Do I want help? Who knows. Maybe. But asking for help feels like admitting defeat, and I’m stubborn. I’d rather drown elegantly than flail for rescue and risk being seen. Isn’t that the tragedy? We want someone to notice, but when they do, we panic and say, “No, I’m fine, it’s just allergies.”

So I stay quiet. Wrap myself in humor like a warm blanket soaked in gasoline. At least when I burn, I’ll be entertaining.

But don’t worry about me. Really. I’ve got books to read, shows to binge, and imaginary conversations to rehearse. I’m a functioning masterpiece of disconnection. A Picasso of pain, if you will. Messy, abstract, and slightly off-center.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow I’ll do it all again.

Wake up late. Pretend. Smile at the barista. Laugh at the wrong moment. Scroll endlessly. Avoid mirrors. Eat something beige. Answer “Doing great!” when someone asks. Cry in the shower. Overthink a message I didn’t send. And end the day exactly where I started—nowhere.

But I’m thriving. Truly.

Thanks for asking.