By Psykhe F. Azarraga
Last year was rough. One day, I was the kind of person who actually enjoyed tidying up, organizing, crafting, talking, and singing. I liked learning new things. I liked feeling productive. And suddenly, I didn’t.
For months, showering became a major weekly event. Brushing my teeth? Just as hard. Not because I didn’t want to—I wanted to smell nice—but because even thinking about standing up, turning on the water, and actually doing it felt exhausting. So, I bargained with myself: Maybe later. Tonight, for sure. Okay, tomorrow morning. Alright, fine, tomorrow night. And suddenly, it had been three days, and I was still in the same pajamas, fully adapted to my new ecosystem: Bed.
Sleeping, on the other hand, was easy. Too easy. It became a full-time job—not the good kind where you wake up refreshed, but the kind where I’d clock in at 2 a.m., wake up at noon, and still feel exhausted. And in between? Oh, I was thriving—in my dreams. Dream-me was out jogging, shopping, living life. Real-me was barely managing to sit up.
At exactly 9 a.m., I had to be “on duty”—which meant still sleeping until my CGM (continuous glucose monitor) decided to scream low, low, low at me. That’s what I call a complicated relationship. Haha.
And then, of course, there was the emotional rollercoaster. I was irritable for no reason. Everything felt like a personal attack. Someone would say “good morning,” and I’d be like, What do you mean by that? I took things way too literally. If someone said, “I’ll be there in five minutes,” I’d actually start timing them, fully prepared to be disappointed.
And the crying? Oh, the crying. I’d cry over an emotional movie, then cry because why did I even pick that movie? I’d cry because my coffee got cold. I’d cry because I reheated it and burned my tongue. Everything felt like a trap. And through it all, I had this overwhelming feeling that I was a victim—of something. I just wasn’t sure what. Society? Gravity? Myself? Probably all of the above.
Also, I was convinced the world was against me. No matter what I did, how I did it, or how much effort I put in, it never felt like enough. I could clean the entire house, and my brain would still go, Yeah, but you forgot that one spoon in the sink. Failure.
And let’s not even talk about food. I barely ate, yet somehow, I gained weight. Like, how? My body was out here hoarding pounds like they were a limited-edition collectible. Skipped dinner, gained two pounds? Cool. Love that for me.
Eventually, I decided to see a professional. It took months to get an appointment—because apparently, everyone was struggling—but I finally got in. I sat across from my therapist, ready to pour my heart out. And I did. Except… I wasn’t even sure what was really bothering me. Where was I supposed to start?
But then, somehow, my brain decided we were switching roles, and suddenly, I was the one asking the questions.
“So, where did you grow up?”
“Ah, I see. I remember I had a classmate from that place. I wonder if you ever heard of their family name?”
“Really, Doc, they’re your cousins? You have the same surname? What a small world!”
“It’s been a long time since I saw her. How is she now?”
“I see… blah blah blah…”
My therapist is good, though. And I’m open to talking about myself. Maybe it’s not me that needs fixing—maybe it’s just my brain that needs a little rewiring.
By the time the session ended, I walked out with a prescription for serotonin-something and absolutely no idea whether I had just unpacked my emotions or accidentally made a new friend. Haha.
But honestly? I’m doing better now. Not perfect, but better. I still like to sleep. I still get lost in my thoughts more than I should. I still negotiate my showers sometimes. But I do shower. And that’s something.
I guess the real me—the one who actually likes getting things done—is still in here. Maybe tired. Maybe lost for a little while. But not gone.
So, until I fully find my way back, I’ll just keep SWIM-ing—as gracefully as I can.
Ciao,
Psykhe Azarraga
