This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to feel like the Eryn who started this blog in 2019/2020. That Eryn had urgency. Fire. A little delusion, sure—but also momentum. I forgot how exhausting I can be when I’m depressed. Truly bone-deep, personality-draining, “why am I like this” exhausted.
Part of me wants to grab myself by the shoulders and yell, buck up. Get over it. Look around. What about your life is actually that bad? I have a loving husband. Two dogs who would wear my skin if given the chance. A roof. Food. Safety. So why do I still feel like a melodramatic piece of shit?
Logically, I know this spiral. Depression. Health stuff. Self-esteem issues. All the things that could be helped if I just got off my ass and worked out or followed a routine or became one of those glowing morning-people who swear exercise saved their life. But my life isn’t where I thought it would be by now—and instead of adjusting the dream, I kind of… quit the game.
Now I’m listless. Bored. Sleepy. Constantly sleepy. My pills don’t help with that. They help with other things, sure, but they also make me feel like I’m underwater. I hate taking them. I know I could take them at night, except the ones I have to take twice a day. And yes, I know—those are excuses. I hear myself making them.
The truth is, I don’t need a personality transplant or a dramatic reinvention. I need a plan. A real one. Something small and human and doable. Something that helps me feel like I have a life again instead of just days that happen to me.
I don’t need to become a new Eryn.
I just need to come back to myself.
I’ve written this post a million times in my head.
Putting pen to paper—well, words to screen—suddenly feels impossible. Everything I swore I’d do after quitting my job? I haven’t done it. I’ve mostly slept. Played The Sims. Eaten like shit. Rinse. Repeat.
This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to feel like the Eryn who started this blog in 2019. That Eryn had urgency. Fire. A little delusion, sure—but also momentum. I forgot how exhausting I can be when I’m depressed. Truly bone-deep, personality-draining, “why am I like this” exhausted.
Part of me wants to grab myself by the shoulders and yell, buck up. Get over it. Look around. What about your life is actually that bad? I have a loving husband. Two dogs who would wear my skin if given the chance. A roof. Food. Safety. So why do I still feel like a melodramatic piece of shit?
Logically, I know this spiral. Depression. Health stuff. Self-esteem issues. All the things that could be helped if I just got off my ass and worked out or followed a routine or became one of those glowing morning-people who swear exercise saved their life. But my life isn’t where I thought it would be by now—and instead of adjusting the dream, I kind of… quit the game.
Now I’m listless. Bored. Sleepy. Constantly sleepy. My pills don’t help with that. They help with other things, sure, but they also make me feel like I’m underwater. I hate taking them. I know I could take them at night, except the ones I have to take twice a day. And yes, I know—those are excuses. I hear myself making them.
The truth is, I don’t need a personality transplant or a dramatic reinvention. I need a plan. A real one. Something small and human and doable. Something that helps me feel like I have a life again instead of just days that happen to me.
I don’t need to become a new Eryn.
I just need to come back to myself.
