In The Fog

Her hands are as small as mine

Grounding me to the Earth

Slowing my racing mind

Ceasing all operations

There’s only peace and clarity

My words spill from my mouth

No filter, no holding back

Not like with the others

Not like when I’m alone

She only smiles in response

And tells her own story

Keeping up, no slowing down

Her lips remind me that I’m real

Real and on the ground

When we separate, I am lost

Floating in the fog,

Trying to make sense of it all

She makes it clear,

if only for a little while.

On why I haven’t written lately

Some of you might be wondering where I’ve gone off to.

It’s okay. I’m still here. or at least, I’m trying to be. I’m very tired, and it seems that I can only do so many things at once. I desperately want to go back to my normal routine of writing, but I’ve been unable to because, as they say, I keep running out of spoons.

Truthfully, I haven’t had a day off from working for a month now. Barely 12 hours go by between my shifts, even if they’re only three hours long, and I’ve become so socially exhausted that my only options are to crawl into bed, and to sleep.

Being an introvert and having to talk to people for work is sort of the worst. More often than not, I end up speaking to three clients at once for hours on end, and I can feel my patience wearing dangerously thin. I am the type to become socially exhausted very, very quickly, and all of this interaction is causing my already very deep depression to worsen. There’s no end in sight, it seems.

I wake up each morning and force myself to eat, and then I’m off to work, awake or not. By the end of it, I can’t stand to look at a screen any longer, and my wrists ache from aggravating my slowly developing carpal tunnel. So I cannot write. I can’t work on my book, and I can’t jot down notes or sketch. I just lay down. Sometimes I read my book (currently reading Fingersmith by Sarah Waters) and other times I just fall asleep, unable to awaken until the next day or when my hunger pangs catch up to me.

I do not have any spoons left to give to the world at the moment.

Molasses

Molasses

She felt like she was moving like molasses.

Waking up was a slow process, with burning, dry eyes and a heavy-set mind that never quite caught up to where she was. The cellphone on the nightstand rung out with a tone that was slow at first, but picked up after a few moments, as she thought it might make the ordeal easier if she were slowly introduced to it. It wasn’t. This was the ninth time that her alarm had gone off, and now, it was time to make herself get up.

Her mouth felt like sandpaper, and the water bottle she kept nearby was useless. Still, she clumsily twisted the cap off of it and took a long, deep drink of the plastic tasting water, spilling some on her jaw and neck. She didn’t care.

It only took five minutes to go downstairs, brush her teeth, take a piss, feed the cat, and stumble back upstairs to fall back onto the bed. The blankets were already starting to cool, and she gave a deep sigh as she fought to keep her eyes open. So far, her mornings were awfully similar to the mornings of people that she knew who weren’t the same, who didn’t get it, and who weren’t quite as tired as she.

An hour passes. She’s in bed still, tapping away at her phone, eyes warm and tired, hair still evidence of her slumber, and her phone’s battery slowly being eaten away by social media. It’s nearly time for work. Getting up and getting dressed was always an ordeal in the morning, but it was an ordeal that she must suffer through each day if she were to continue living on her own. Lightheaded, she managed to get out of bed and change into her work clothes as the buzzing in her ears began to dance with her vertigo.

Work was going to be a challenge, just like it was nearly every day. On the way there, she almost felt energized, as if stepping out into the fresh air and blasting her car radio was fuel enough to keep her going through the day. It never was enough. Within five minutes of arriving at her desk at work, the warm, hazy cloud was enveloping her again, and she stared blankly at the computer screen as it booted up.

Within an hour, the painful, physical need to sleep was crawling down her back. It didn’t matter if she got four, six, eight, of twelve hours of sleep. It was always like this. This heavy, encompassing feeling never went away, and the back of her mind always ached for something lesser, somewhere warmer, and somewhere darker. She yearned for the hot silence that her mind and body craved.

Seven hours later, and it was time to go home. She had nearly fallen asleep five times. Her bed was whispering in her mind as she turned into her driveway, and practically dragging her by the wrist by the time her front door was unlocked.

It was time to eat dinner and go to bed, then do it all over again. As she dragged herself up the stairs, she felt like molasses.