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Crying in the Shower
An emotional, raw, and weirdly comforting survival book for when life feels like too much.
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Some mornings - maybe most - you wake up and immediately regret it. Your first conscious thought isn't gratitude or excitement or purpose. It's: Damn it. Again? It's not melodramatic. It's not for attention. It's just the truth. You're not actively trying to die. You're just tired of being alive like this. That space between sleeping and waking? That floating nowhere before the weight of existence crashes back onto your chest? That's the moment that hurts the most. You remember you're still you. Still broken, still tired, still drowning in the same unsolvable mess. The room hasn't changed. The...
Some mornings - maybe most - you wake up and immediately regret it. Your first conscious thought isn't gratitude or excitement or purpose. It's: Damn it. Again? It's not melodramatic. It's not for attention. It's just the truth. You're not actively trying to die. You're just tired of being alive like this. That space between sleeping and waking? That floating nowhere before the weight of existence crashes back onto your chest? That's the moment that hurts the most. You remember you're still you. Still broken, still tired, still drowning in the same unsolvable mess. The room hasn't changed. The world hasn't changed. And you're still expected to show up for it. And it sucks. There's no pep talk here. I won't tell you to count your blessings or try yoga or drink lemon water. I'll just say: I see you. And I'm still here, too. This isn't a chapter about bouncing back. This is a chapter about not bouncing at all - just lying there, in the heap of yourself, and breathing. That's it. That's the bar. You don't need to win the day. You just need to survive the first ten minutes of it. Maybe you haven't brushed your teeth in days. Maybe your phone's full of unread texts because talking to anyone feels like lifting a truck. Maybe you're scared of how numb you feel - or how loudly the pain screams when you stop scrolling. Still. You woke up. And you stayed. That's not nothing. You might not want to be here. But you are. And even if you don't believe it yet, your being here still matters. Even when you're silent. Even when you're messy. Even when you feel like a ghost. You are not weak for feeling this way. You are not broken beyond repair. You are a person carrying a weight most people will never see - and you're still somehow dragging it forward, hour by hour. So don't worry about "fixing" yourself today. Don't worry about being okay. Just take a breath. Then maybe another. Then maybe sit up, if you can. Then maybe drink some water. Then maybe whisper to yourself - not loudly, not confidently - just enough to hear it in your own bones: "I don't want to be here. But I am. And that's something." And right now, that's enough.
