Essays

A Slow Crawl

I feel each breath I take. Each breath is an effort, to inhale is harder. I almost feel chained to my bed until my the shame of not catching up to my day takes over. The pleasure of more sleep is slightly outweighed by the misery of breaking my routine.

Each step feels long, the door handle seems far. While opening, I dread the fact that I have to close. Each room feels like an obstacle, a challenge.

Opening the cabinet door, reaching for the toothbrush, removing the cap of the toothpaste, and wondering whether it would just be fine if I skipped brushing. While brushing, I resent that I will have to bend over to rinse my mouth. I wonder if it's better to just swallow instead. The tap handle feels stuck.

Every reminder that I need to drink by the sensation of a dry throat feels miserable. Every sip of water feels exhausting, from removing the bottle cap, to lifting it, to puckering my lips, to sipping, to lowering the bottle back and putting the cap back on. To endure the taste of the water just so I can remove the worse sensation of thirst feels defeating.

Shortly after the sip of water the sensation of having to excuse oneself comes in. From flushing, to washing my hands, to coming back and remembering what I was working on, everything feels like a punishment. A punishment of having sipped too much water. Maybe I ought to have endured the dry throat?

I feel a pang in the stomach. To alleviate this pang I never asked for, I must cook food I don't wish to eat, and produce dishes I don't wish to wash. For each bite of the mediocre dish I prepared, I weigh if hunger is more insufferable or the taste of the food. Before each swallow, I weigh if to spit might be better.

Each meeting at work feels like hours to the minute. Each second I have to concentrate on the voice of a manager I feel to the very end. Each small task feels large.

Each piece of clothing becomes another piece of laundry. A piece of laundry that must be washed, hanged, folded and stored. Another piece onto the pile that will eventually become too large to ignore. Another piece to pile on to the dread.

A tiresome activity of spinning plates, be it psychological or physical, and the knowledge that there are many more days and years of this to come, and of the inevitable crash. The heavy knowledge that all leisure can be rephrased as distraction from this reality. I think it's fair to wonder the purpose of postponing the crash, the purpose of continuing to spin. Sometimes it feels easier to stop than to button another shirt.