The Shape of Days

Sometimes I have sick days. Days when I’m sick of living. Sick of my face in the mirror. Sick of sleeping on a couch. Sick of being an adult but not having any of the answers. Sick of hurting inside.

Today’s a sick day. The pills help, usually, but I just took my last one. I don’t think there are going to be any after that. The prospect of not having them scares me. I don’t like taking them, but sometimes I’m afraid not to.

I tell myself that it’s an illness, that it’s not my fault. This doesn’t change the fact that life is harder than it has any right to be. All my hopes, all my dreams evaporate in the harsh light of… whatever.

I didn’t sleep well last night. It rained, and the dog was scared, and he kept trying to crawl on top of my face. It’s a couch, and not an especially big one at that. There’s barely enough room for me. Eventually we settled into a sort of uneasy truce, but he was too hot. I threw off the covers and dozed fitfully. And had bad dreams.

This may be the most miserable time of my life. I’m not sure, but it’s a distinct possibility.

Sometimes I have sick days. Today is one of them.

• Leaving
• Train of thought now departing on track seventeen
• A difficult day