I'm still good

even when i do everything wrong

It’s 62° when I wake up and come downstairs.

I have a morning ritual I’ve been trying to release myself from, or at least change so that it’s slightly less damaging. A zyn - a holdover from an ex that I’d like to blame for the habit but can’t. A few months from now, I’ll be hitting my roommate’s vape when she wakes up because I made a bet with another friend to quit zyns.

a coffee - French press, partly because I can’t afford to keep buying Nespresso pods and partly because I saw a pretty girl on TikTok call it “chic.”

And speaking of, my phone - I sit on the couch with my vices, half brain dead and half overthinking, scrolling and sipping and quietly stewing about how much healthier I’d be if I didn’t do either.

A glass sits in the sink unwashed because it can’t go in the dishwasher. I don’t want to clean it. A bag of trash sits by the front door because I haven’t left the house today, and I couldn’t possibly go outside for just that one reason, could I?

I sit with a blanket made of cement on my lap. With a fire in my chest, surrounded by a moat with freezing cold water, so that it has no choice but to stay there and nowhere else.

You can’t hate yourself into changing. I’ve heard that over and over again, and what’s more, I’ve tried it over and over again. They were right. Well, you can’t change yourself into changing either. It sounds funny, but I weave tales of my ideal morning, my ideal self, all the right habits in the right order. Setting a bar I know I can’t reach; either because I’m unable to admit to being incapable of something, or because it’s less disappointing to fail at something difficult than it is to fail at something simple.

I watch myself stuck there. Tired. I watch myself drag my feet out of the house, taking the trash, and going to the grocery store. I watch myself buy the wrong things for the hundredth time in a row. I buy chicken I won’t cook, and milk that goes bad before I even open it. I buy fruit while thinking about how much rice I’d have to eat before I got scurvy.

I watch myself not go to the gym because I didn’t think about it before, and I just showered. I watch myself put off the two minutes it would take to send an important text. Instead, I text my friends to see if they want to go to the bar tonight. I spend more money on gas and drive much too far for the fourth time this week.

And when I come home, I’d like to be there waiting on the couch; with a meal, a blanket, and nothing else. “I was waiting for you,” I’d say, with warmth and excitement, not passive aggression or judgment. I’d sit with my head on my chest and my arms holding on to each other tightly, and I’d tell myself I’m good. I’m still good.