With my curtains closed, I lurk in my room. My bed is unmade, and dishes orbit my monitor like planets around an LCD sun. A solid imprint remains where my ass has spent the last evening. The door isn’t locked, but it hasn’t been open since sunrise. My phone casts the only light in my room, a small portal to a world colored with anxieties. I clutch it. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Stop. Refresh. Repeat.
Messages pile in my inbox, messages I am careful to avoid, navigating past them as if operating a minefield. An email comes in—work. I turn my phone and ignore it. Today is my mental health day.
I spend the afternoon staring at the shadows that sink into my stucco ceiling and the deodorant stick on the floor of my bedroom. My body slumps as if I had been wrestling for hours. With the little energy I can muster, I turn back and forth, curling my blankets around me like a constricting snake. The singing birds remind me of the day passing without me. The sunlight at the edges of my curtains burns with a horrible glow. It’s too nice out. It should be shitty and gray. Instead, it’s clear, warm, and the neighbor’s dog is barking too loud.
My stomach growls with an empty hunger, but I make no effort to feed myself. I’ll eat some snacks when the sun has set, maybe I’ll drink some water too. Right now, I think I’ll just lay here, strangled by my stale blankets, still in my jeans. I told myself I’d make use of the day, but no one needs to know that. Today is my mental health day, after all. So, fuck everything and let me sleep. Or at least try to sleep.
Damn, I’m tired.
