I don’t want to get out of bed.
I tell myself: coffee first. Just the sofa. That’s all.
I sigh. I move. I get there.
Now I don’t want to get off the sofa. I tell myself to make breakfast. Everyone needs to eat.
I move slowly. I get there.
I don’t want to get up from the table. I don’t want to clean the dishes. I don’t want to shower. I certainly don’t want to work. All I want is to go back to bed and for the world to agree that this is reasonable.
I want to just disappear. Not die — disappear. There’s a difference, and I know exactly what it is. I want the heaviness to lift. I want to care about something, about myself. But I don’t. Not today.
I tell myself: you will feel worse if you stay. You don’t have the luxury of giving up. Just breathe. Just shoes. Just the door.
Reluctantly, I go outside.
I am exhausted, even though I slept. Moving, breathing, feeling — everything costs something I don’t have.
I walk past people going about their day and I think: how?
And then: what if they feel this too? Or is it just me?
I don’t want to speak to anyone. I give myself permission not to. And then someone speaks to me, and I answer, and somehow the world doesn’t end.
I breathe. I just keep walking.
This too will pass. It always has. I don’t believe it today, but I know it. And knowing is enough.