Sometimes when you chain-smoke everything tastes like ash. You need to cleanse the palette. You need to stop smoking and let your taste buds heal.
It feels like sorrow and grief operate the same way. Where everything is just... Deadened. Muted. I don't feel the joy in doing these things. So why bother. Not understanding that I need to keep at it.... I need to do the work of cleansing the palette. Of scraping away the dead tissue to be able to fucking.... Feel that joy.
Today, Ive had Gerard Way singing in my head "When I grow up I want to be nothing at all" and hating on myself. For not working. For not being enough..
But it's not true. I've worked some jobs. I've done college and let me tell you the act of recognizing and taking care of your own needs. To getting yourself to a place where joy can be felt. Where you can savor the little things. That's real work. It's hard work.
Every bit of progress you make is yours. No one gets to belittle the steps you take, even yourself. Be fiercely proud of your progress. It is unabashedly your own and it is a wonder.