My mental illness doesn’t care that I have things to get done today.

Dishes that need to be washed.

Clothes that need to be folded.

Rooms that need to be decluttered.

Lunches that need to be made.

Boo-boos that need to be kissed.

It doesn’t care that the weight in my chest makes it hard to do anything other than sit on the couch.

It doesn’t care that my son had to ask me three times to play with him before I could talk myself into getting down on the floor with him.

It doesn’t care that I even managed a shower this morning and told myself today would be a good day.

It certainly doesn’t care that I took the time to put makeup on and change into real pants instead of leggings.

But you know what?

I don’t have to succumb to it. I don’t have to give it even more space than it already takes up.

Some days, I decide I need to rest and push aside responsibilities to sit on the couch with my kids. I allow myself to feel the weight of sadness, but I don’t allow myself to move in and buy property there.

I force myself to fold one load of laundry. I can do one. It may take me two hours or more, but I’ll do it.

I send a text to my best friend, “It’s a dark day today, will you pray?” I choose to be kind to myself, give myself some grace for the things that are just too much today.

I also choose to hope tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow could (and hopefully, will) be a day when the weight is not so heavy.

I’ll remind myself there is nowhere too far for Jesus to reach me, He has me in the palm of His hand, and His banner over me is love.

I’ll remind myself of the joy I feel when my son snuggles close on the couch, or when my daughter laughs while she dances.

I’ll remind myself my husband’s arms are always there to hold me and he doesn’t think I’m too much to handle, even if my brain tries to lie to me and say I am.

Tonight, I’ll take my anti-OCD/depression medication and hold on to the hope that tomorrow is a brand new day.