There’s a particular kind of morning that doesn’t have a good name yet. Not a bad day, exactly. Not a crisis. Just a day that arrives already heavy, already wrong-feeling, where the gap between lying in bed and becoming a functional person feels less like a step and more like a canyon you’re being asked to leap across without being told there’s a canyon.
I’ve had a lot of those days. I still have them. And for a long time I tried to fix them the way I’d been taught, which is to say I tried to fix them the way a neurotypical person might. I’d make the list. I’d set the timer. I’d tell myself to just start with one small thing, just move your body, just splash water on your face, just eat something, just.
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