"I want to, but I can't."

This is something I find myself saying more often than I would like to.

I want to come out to the bar with you guys, but I can't. I want to spend this beautiful summer day outside, but I can't. I want to text you back and talk to you about your day, but I can't. There are so many wonderful things I want to do, but I just can't.

There's nothing physically restraining me. I'm not bound to my home like someone on house arrest. I'm not chained to the wall with a ball and chain on my ankle. I'm not prevented from leaving by an electric fence. I just can't.

I'm not making excuses— I wish I was, it would make this easier.

I can't because this overwhelming wave of disinterest flows through me, even though I know deep down that I'm going to have fun. I feel a pain in my stomach that eventually makes me nauseous when I think about leaving the comfort of my couch. All I want to do is sleep. My mom asks me why I'm staying in tonight and I just tell her I can't go out, I have things I need to do.

This isn't a lie. I do have things to do. I should clean and organize my room, I should work on my writing, I should work on homework for my summer classes. I should be doing things, but I can't. I can't because thinking of organizing an entire room makes me want to cry. I'm defeated by a single thought without being able to put up a fight. I want to write, but I have no inspiration.

Rather, I find comfort in the monotony of scrolling through social media or playing games on my phone that require minimal thought. I have no problem sitting on my couch watching reruns of television shows that I've seen a hundred times before.

I don't expect you to understand how I feel because frankly, I didn't understand until I experienced it myself. I don't want you to pity me or feel sorry for me, I just want you to understand. I want you to understand that it's not you, that it's me.

I want you to understand that I want to, but I can't.