Sunday Morning

My eyes are shut tight as the morning sun peers its way through the curtains of my bedroom. Maybe if I close them long enough it’ll go away, or if I ignore it, it’ll just cease to exist and therefore not bother me. 

The start of a new day, a symbol that yesterday is over and today has only just begun. Dread rolls its way through my body starting at my ears, raking its way across my skin and settling deep in my bones. Tired, sore, sad bones. Feigning productivity, I sit up and take in my surroundings. My queen bed nestled perfectly in one corner. Across from it, a dresser I inherited from my father with a nice 50” television sitting on it. Next to my dresser, a bookshelf of miscellaneous items; stacks of books I haven’t read yet, notebooks that are bare, a record player I’ve used once and records that have been sitting in my father’s collection for over 20 years. Yet another bookshelf holding Wicca type items like incense and tarot cards stands to the left of my hunched form. A vanity on its other side, empty as the day I received it from my now dead grandfather. The fan in front of my vanity circulates the air in this stuffy room, but serves no relief to the warmth sitting heavily throughout the area. 

 Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I press my feet onto cool wood floors. Satisfaction forms in my gut as I stand, something about cool floors in a place that equates being in a sauna. Gliding across the floor, I pass through the hallway turning into the bathroom. I don’t give myself the chance to take in my appearance. I’m sure I can depict how disheveled my dull brown hair is, or how the dark circles and bags under my eyes don’t accentuate my green eyes and especially how my pale skin lacks in any pinkness. I go about my business turning the shower on and running the water as hot as I can possibly stand it. Stepping in I close my eyes and let the water hit me. I don’t feel the scorching heat, billowing up steam. Encasing me in the small space. I don’t feel the way the steam fills my lungs, adding weight. I don’t feel the warm tub floor pooling with water because the drain refuses to work. I don’t feel anything. I don’t know how long I stood in the shower just staring at the light coming from the small window just above me, it felt like hours before something in me clicked to continue onto my routine. 

Minutes later emerging from the shower, moving my limbs proved to be no small feat. Each one easily having been stuffed with 50 pound weights, threatening to drop me to the ground at any given moment. Yet I never do. The simple task of drying myself overwhelming my already disconnected mind. Grabbing the towel I had set out for myself I drape it around my shoulders, and sit on the closed lid of the toilet. I know there are things that need to be done today, but my feet have been tethered to the linoleum. Glued down, preventing me from moving even if I wanted to. I want to, but I can’t. I can’t seem to move the boulders that replaced my feet minutes ago. I can’t open the door to clear out the steam because the mundane act of turning the doorknob would still require me moving, my, feet. 

Turning my head back to the beacon above the shower, the sun still hitting the glass block window. Still shining, bright as ever. Like it hasn’t moved an inch within the hour I’ve been forcing myself through the motions. 

Irrational anger vibrates through me, rattling my core. Standing up I realize that almost no trace of my shower is evident. My hair falling forward from the movement is damp, no longer dripping. I take that as a small blessing that I don’t have to wring it out to avoid wet marks on my t-shirt. My hands grip the counter, as I stare down my tooth brush. As if it’ll magically start brushing my teeth on its own accord. Grabbing the well used toothbrush and dressing it with toothpaste I pop it in my mouth. Lazily brushing my teeth, just to say that I did at all. 

Venturing back to my room, I look at my bed. Still fresh with tossed sheets, proof of being slept in. And I fight myself. How easy it would be to just crawl back into bed and cocoon myself with blankets. Fighting an unreasonable gravitational pull, to just forget the rest of this never ending day and lay in the safety of my own bed. Magnetic, the force of comfort. A sure battle that I lose every time, my body no longer feeling like lead. Weightless and airy, almost pleading with me to give in to solace. 

Dressing myself at lightning speed while the light and airy feeling is present, I force myself out of my cave. With each step away from my safe haven the feeling of gravity singling me out increases. So much so, that the urge to lay on the floor is all I can think about. How the wood floor would feel against my skin. Managing my way through the family room, the kitchen and into the living room, I stumble upon the couch. Wrapping myself in the blanket that lives there, I curl up horizontally and lose time as the day passes slowly. The sun surely rising millimeters at a time, seconds lasting hours. I know I should move. Do something, anything but breathing is a chore. Having to consciously remind myself to inhale, then exhale is a burden. A vicious cycle I can’t break. The feeling of dread takes root in my soul, exhaustion embedding itself in my arms and legs. Holding me hostage, never letting me leave.