vacation depression

November 19, 2018

I’m laying here in bed in Barcelona, in an amazing suite, in one of the coolest hotels I’ve ever staid in, and all I can feel is sadness. I should be happy. I’m on vacation, I’m in Europe, I’m here with my friends.

My friend just called me. Let’s go to brunch she said. The idea of having to act normal and human is making me nauseous today, so I lied and told her I have work. In truth it’s a half lie. I do have work, but I also don’t feel like doing it either. I just want to lay here, in bed, and space out, and do nothing. I just want to stay under the covers, and dig into the darkness.

But I’m hungry. Hmmm…room service.

I just ordered chicken noodle soup and a veggie pizza. This is going to be the world’s most expensive chicken noodle soup. I don’t care.

I heard chanting outside, some sort of protest. Meh, it got me out of bed and looking out the window. It’s sunny outside, and breezy, it’s a beautiful day. How disgusting. Happy to be back in bed. I did leave the window open. I regret that now, but I don’t want to get up again. Ugh. Now all the nice is seeping in here, I don’t want it in here. Leave.

Why am I feeling this way? Why would I rather stay in bed on a beautiful day in Barcelona, then go explore the city? Is it because it’s the first time I travel alone? I think this is the first time I actually stay alone in a hotel room. Is it because I’m just tired? Too much partying the last few months? But I was happy before I left Miami. What’s going on?

There’s a knock at the door…brb.

My soup has decided to arrive. I’m holding the bowl in front of my face, propped up with my knees, slurping it away happily. The over salted warm golden liquid feels comforting trickling down my throat. I always say soups are like internal hugs.

I move on to the pizza, and I’m getting crumbs all over the bed. Fuck, who cares. But I kinda do care. I don’t want them to feel like ants in my bed when I’m trying to sleep at night. I eat most of it. I push away the tray to the empty side of the bed, the side that still looks pristine, and I pull up my legs to my chest, the covers over my head, and I just give into it. I just cry. And I cry and cry and cry…and at this point I’ve just laying there, my face in a puddle. I think it’s around 4 or 5.

I think I can get up.

I just stretched, and I feel better. Just stinky. I need a shower. A hot shower. A long hot shower. brb.

OK, I’m back. I think I can finally go on with my day now. I don’t have to feel like this anymore. At least not today.

Post Script: The above was what I was mentally taking notes of as I felt a debilitating sadness that day. I now understand, that this might be what my healing looks like and it doesn’t have to make sense. I needed to be in the bed that day, and that’s ok. I’m trying to be kind to myself and forgiving of days like that. It wouldn’t be normal for me to not go through anything, quite the opposite. I’m just happy that I was able to pull out of the spiral that same day, vs a few weeks a few months ago.

Here are a couple of my Instagram story posts from that day.

Proof of my soup and pizza haha…that bed was so comfy too. :p

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