On the Days I Blamed Myself for Being Unable to Move—What Was Happening Deep Inside My Body

When days go by where I cannot move, I feel anxious.
Even though I know what I need to do in my head, my body does not respond.

“I’m just being lazy,” “I’m just coddling myself”—the more I labeled myself, the heavier the version of me that couldn't move became.

But perhaps during that time, it wasn't that “nothing was happening,” but rather that something was quietly being rewritten inside.

I was originally the type to move as soon as I thought of something.
If I was dissatisfied with something, I would try to change it through action.
I couldn't stand the state of being still itself.

That is why, when I became unable to move due to depression, the first thing that welled up was anxiety.
Next, irritation.
A feeling that I, who was accomplishing nothing, was losing my value more and more.

Even though my body wouldn't move, my anxiety was spinning in circles.

At one point, I thought that there might be two types of states where one cannot move.

One is a state where energy is depleted.
Simply put, there is no charge left.

It is close to the feeling of slowly filling a balloon with air.
It accumulates, and accumulates, and once it crosses a critical point, you let go and it flies away.
Until then, you have no choice but to stay still.

The other is a state where the flow is blocked.
Even though there is energy, it is not being output.

This one was troublesome.
Even if I tried to force myself to move, I would just spin my wheels.
Unless I found “what was causing the blockage,” no matter how hard I tried, it was the same.

Is it depletion, or is it a blockage?
Just by distinguishing between the two, how I treat myself changes.

And in my case, when I traced that “blockage,” I arrived at a single premise I had believed for a long time.

“If you don't move, reality won't change.”

Because I lived by that belief, I felt disgust when I saw people who couldn't move.
People who were all talk.
People who remained stuck in a victim mentality.
People who stayed silent for a long time.

But when I quietly delved into that disgust, what I saw was unexpected.

That was not anger toward others.
It was a compulsiontoward myself.

“If I don't move, there are things I will lose”—when I got to the bottom of what those “things I would lose” were, I arrived at value.

I believed that I had no value if I didn't move.
Because I believed that, the version of me that couldn't move was so terrifying.

From the outside, it looks as if change happens suddenly.

A person who has been unable to move for a long time suddenly starts moving one day.
Those around them say, "You've changed so suddenly."

But inside, something had been moving for a long time.
Like tectonic shifts, quietly, in the depths.

Perhaps emotions were being thawed little by little.
Perhaps self-perception was being rewritten without me noticing.
Perhaps the way I saw the world was shifting, just a tiny bit at a time.

Then one day, it crosses the threshold and emerges to the outside.

It wasn't that I forced myself to take a step with willpower.
The conditions were met, and I stood up naturally.
Perhaps that was all there was to it.

Time spent unable to move is not evil.

If you are depleted, you should wait for recovery.
If you are blocked, you should go and look at the blockage.

Either way, "blaming yourself for being unable to move" is not a prescription.

What exactly was moving during that time?
Honestly, I still don't really know.

Was the tension in my body unraveling?
Was the way I face myself trying to change?

But I think one thing.

Even in time that appears to be at a standstill, something is quietly being rewritten inside.

That work does not yet have a name.
However, it was certainly progressing deep within my body.

I wrote about something continuous with this story last time, from the perspective of "where to draw the line when external rules do not function."