My body was relieved to go on a short walk to drop off laundry — it had been days since the last time I had left my apartment. But as my feet moved forward, my mind was stuck in place.
I kept thinking about that email I still had to send. I dreaded the commissions I could have passed on and that were now overdue. I kept trying to tell my body to hurry up so I could stop wasting time and get back to work.
But it didn’t listen.
I grabbed my phone and tweeted on my private account that I felt like I was daydreaming. I don’t remember much since, except for loose fragments.
Moving in on July 1st to my own place. My eldest brother calling me four days later trying to articulate what had happened as he fought back tears.
Wrapping up my 9-5 shifts only for work to start over until the next day.
The same playlist looping in the background every night.
1 am. 2 am. 3 am. 4 am. 5 am. 6 am.
Keeping myself busy to forget reality.
10 hour work days. 15 hour work days. 18 hour work days.
My body is restrained. It takes an extra hour for my head to actually rest on the pillow.
Keeping myself busy to forget a heartbreak.
Everyone on Twitter talks about me for an entire day.
August passes by. September passes by. I try to forget October.
I blink a thousand times to see if I wake up.
Weeks dictated by deadlines. Months recognized only in invoices.
I get a DM from an editor I always admired.
I get paranoid thinking this is the night where my body gives up on me.
I sit on the shore for hours.
