How to Get Out of Bed

Hey, I'm Jeanette. I'm currently earning my Master's of Arts in Creative Writing and working full-time as a Social Media Manager. Neat credentials, right? But none of that's as important to me as what I'm going to talk about today.

About a year ago, I was discussing the possibility of marriage with my long-term partner. We were playing with our two dogs (one large, easily startled, clumsy boy dog and one small yet extroverted, lanky girl dog -- inexplicably siblings) and daydreaming about opening a cafe-bar together after moving away to a city that would be so much better than our current one. Our apartment was cluttered with trinkets from the both of us; Star Wars LEGOs on one side (theirs) and endless books lined across another (mine). It was warm, comfortable, safe. I was never alone.

home sweet home (august 2023)

Today, I spent a late morning journaling at a local coffee shop before walking home, making an iced latte, and continuing my struggle to write something coherent. My apartment is minimalist and desolate, other than me. The barista was the only person I spoke out-loud to all day. There's no doting partner waiting up for me and no excitable dogs pawing at my legs. A year ago, my life was so full that it felt overwhelming at times. Now, I strive to fill the hours.

strawberry latte with oat milk!

Some days are great; filled with my best friend's laughter, half-finished graphite sketches, whiskey painkillers and cheap polaroids on bar counters. Other days are less great. My alarm goes off in the morning, and the thought of getting out of bed and going to work makes me question existence. Why am I doing all of this? plays on a loop in my head throughout my eight-hour shift. Then I come home around 5pm, bury myself under my blankets, and find it impossible to get back up no matter how dehydrated or hungry or achy I feel. Rinse and repeat.

This isn't a pretty introduction, but it's honest. Mental health kind of sucks sometimes, and grief is never linear. Good days, bad days, and in-between days. There's a societal stigma against acknowledging these struggles. It's why I try to turn it into a snarky quip whenever I do talk about it, even to my closest friends. But that type of comfort is temporary, and I'd rather be honest. Maybe you can relate to some of this, but you struggle to talk about it, too. Maybe this will make you feel less alone. My biggest goal, no matter what I am writing, is to ensure that no one feels alone while reading it.

Sometimes, your entire life (your future, your dreams, your heart) shatters right in front of you, and all you can do is watch. You have to give yourself grieving time, and you have to sit with the misery. Even when it would be easier to work long hours, then drink until you throw up on 5th Street at two in the morning. (Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.) You have to feel it. But it's important to distinguish between feeling your emotions and drowning in them. Eventually, you have to get out of bed. You have to go to work, answer phone calls from your loved ones, take a long walk in nature, pet someone else's dogs, eat some fruit. You have to write again.

home sweet home (march 2025)

At least, that's what I'm telling myself. That's the entire reason I'm writing tonight.

My grief isn't solely from that breakup, and it's difficult to separate those feelings and sit with each of them, individually. It started to suffocate me, and I just didn't notice. Until yesterday, when I struck a breaking point on a late-night phone call with an old friend. I caught them up on the last few months, half-laughing and half-crying as I explained one unhinged circumstance after the other. I hope you're writing all of this down, they said. It'll make a great story someday. That's all it took to drag me out of my funk: the reminder that, no matter what happens to me, I will always be a writer.

I've been staring at blank screens and empty papers for the last few weeks. I was depressed during the 2020 lockdown (I know, who wasn't?) and wrote over four hundred poems in the quiet of my bedroom, but this time around, I've struggled to string together one sentence. Still, there's always light in the darkness, as cliche as it might sound. There's always reasons to write. It's in the sound of my friends' echoing laughter around an Italian restaurant table; the sweet vanilla of my favorite coffee at seven in the morning; the reddish-orange hue of a springtime sunset; the stranger who gifted me a handmade card with a painted dragonfly just for being polite; the distinctive smell of a loved one's cologne.

There's meaning in everything, and everything can be written about.

my best friend (bright yellow converse) and myself (obnoxious black boot)

Starting this blog is the metaphorical equivalent of getting out of bed for me. I plan on writing about a plethora of topics: heartbreak and starting over, living alone in a city as a woman, mental health awareness, rediscovering one's creative identity, pursuing a Master's degree, and how social media affects our personal identity. Thank you so much for reading and joining me on this journey! If any of this resonated with you, don't forget to subscribe for future content (pretty please), and don't hesitate to let me know what you're going through, too. We're all dragging ourselves through life together.

Until next time,

Jeanette :)