Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
WillDive4Plants: *Breathes heavily
WillDive4Plants: OK. Now that I've panicked and freaked out… I apologize for the shouty caps 😂
WillDive4Plants: The joys of being a creative type. K Bye.
I set my notifications to Do Not Disturb and do something my therapist, Doc, has told me repeatedly not to use as a form of motivation.
I tell myself I can’t check my phone until I have two thousand words written, and if I do, then something terrible will happen.
Doing this on purpose when I have a disorder that forces these awful thoughts on me anyway, and then puts them on replay, basically undoes any progress I’ve made in therapy to make it stop happening so frequently.
But I’m desperate, and I can work on fixing my permanently broken brain after I meet my deadline.
When I check my phone exactly 2,133 words later, I have a message waiting for me from Gym Daddy.
RomanticSadistLL: LOL. I’m nowhere near your level, but I’ve been known to be decent with the words I choose. Of course, there’s much to be said for physical presence… and delivery. So you’ll have to add that later.
I snort grumpily.
WillDive4Plants: CORRECTION! I was very physically present THIS MORNING. But SOMEONE must've taken one look at the nerd in the café and made his escape without saying hi 😂
WillDive4Plants: Or at least that's what my intrusive thoughts decided to pick on me with.
WillDive4Plants: See? *twirls finger by my head. I told you I was nuts 😂
WillDive4Plants: But also, yes. I've been impressed as hell by the words you've chosen. Because 99.9999% of the time, men are cringe when they try to talk “NOT BEHAVINGLY.” Hence why I didn't block you when you did it the first time. Everyone else got the boot when they didn't listen when I said I'm here for research only. You’re… given special privileges.
WillDive4Plants: Entirely for research purposes though😂
I don’t hear from him again while I go through the last chapter I wrote, fixing little typos and switching out repetitive words. When I get to the end of the document, I send it to Barb so she can go ahead and start editing it while I attempt to finish writing the ending. I pack up my bag and head out of the little area closed off with a pony door, and when I start to pass the showers, I come to a stop, staring into the brightly-lit alcove. Two long rows with individual, private shower stalls on either side of each row are separated by a wall of a seemingly endless supply of perfectly folded, pristine white towels and washcloths.
The sound of a couple of the faucets running along with the scent of clean steam coming from the alcove is enticing, when for the past several months the mere thought of forcing myself to shower was enough to make me bury my head in my pillow and take a long nap.
To anyone who has never had a depressive episode or been diagnosed with any kind of mental illness, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t understand the idea of a shower feeling like a huge undertaking. Get in, soap up, rinse off, get out. Done.
Wrong.
Because in a disordered mind, it’s aaall the steps leading up to the shower, every minute detail of what happens inside the shower, and then again, aaall the shit you have to do when you get out.
Like now, for instance, I’d have to walk about twelve feet ahead and find a locker that’s not taken. I’d have to put my bag in and set a temporary code for the lock, then try my best to not only remember the code but also which locker it is, because they all look alike. Another number to try to remember. I’d have to go up to the long line of sinks beneath the beautifully lit mirror that runs twenty feet, where there are canisters set on the counter next to each faucet.
I could grab a disposable razor or two from a canister, take them into one of the shower stalls, but first, I need to grab two washcloths—one for my face and one for my body—and two towels—one for my body and one for my hair.
And then the real work begins.
I don’t know when in the process it happened, but while I was lining out all the things I’d have to do first in order to take a shower, I unconsciously started doing them. Maybe when the idea flipped from being daunting to inviting, when I remembered I could shave my legs for the first time in God only knows how long, since I can never remember to add razors to my grocery delivery.
Whenever it may have happened, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that I’ve already completed the annoying task of hanging up my two washcloths, my two towels, undressed without getting my clothes damp with my wet bare feet, managed to hang all said clothes on the one little silver hook on the wall outside my stall, and am now spinning the handle to let out an endless supply of scalding water—just the way I like it.