It’s hopeless. Empty. You turn the key over again and again, but the car still doesn’t start.
You’ve tried everything. The things that used to work don’t work anymore. Frayed rope wrapped around your knuckles. Hang on to it.
At the end of the day I stand in the kitchen and stare at a counter full of dirty dishes. Knees weaken, my throat catches. It’s just too much. Like everything. Paralysis. And I catch myself wondering if any of it matters anyway.
The medication, the therapy, the long walks around the lake. The exercise, the diet. The writing, the communication, the skill-building. The revised work schedule, the closed windows. Firing on all cylinders, but still feeling nothing.
I put my hands on Mason’s shoulders and look up at him. “I can do this, right? Tell me things will be different.” He does. Pulls me tight into him again. Kisses the top of my head and rocks me softly.
Alyssa texts me reminders of the things I love. Tells me about the passionate and beautiful parts of myself that are just tired and quiet, not gone forever. Promises this isn’t my new permanent.
So I take a deep breath. I pick up a dirty spoon, a fork, a knife. I take the plates and put them in the dishwasher. The glasses, too. I wipe the counter and spray out the sink. Everything is monumental and I’m just not big enough. But one piece at a time, I do it anyway.