Life Daemon

When I finally woke up, I was tired and achy all over my body. I did not feel like I could get out of bed. I needed another century of sleep at least to feel normal. But the alarm kept ringing and I got up to turn it off. It was another person, a type A person, who thought it was a good idea to put the alarm furthest from the bed so that the sleeper had to get up to turn it off. 

With silence permeating the room again, I wanted to slide to the floor and just lay there. This weight I woke up with was just too burdensome. Who said I wanted this house, these clothes, this job? All I ever wanted was happiness, and these material things did not bring it to me, only stress and grief. 

I did not lay down on the floor. I picked myself up and went to the closet. Pretty designer label clothing hung throughout the walk-in space, but it all felt foreign, like it was not mine, like it did not belong on me, so I opted for a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie. I then moved to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face was swollen and noticeably tired. In the top drawer of the vanity was plenty of makeup for a makeup artist to make something out of my face, but the tubes, the jars, the brushes all felt foreign in my hands so I just left them. I washed my face and pulled out a brush to brush my hair. Screw it, my hair was so tangled from last night’s tossing and turning that I didn’t bother with it either. 

Dragging my feet, I went downstairs where it smelled horrific. I had left out the attempt that was last night’s dinner. I tossed it in the trash, grew too tired to do anything else, and plopped myself down on the couch and curled into a ball. In theory, I should not be this tired. I should not be this overwhelmed with what is supposed to be my life, but here I was on the couch unable to live. 

The sound of a trash truck was what woke me up. I checked my phone. It was almost ten o’clock. I was really late for work. I opened my laptop and tried to read emails with bleary eyes, but could not see. I rubbed my eyes and tried again and this time saw two emails. I was relieved and sagged back into the couch. No one missed me at work, but if no one missed me, does it mean that my work even mattered? I thought about the high school version of me and how I wanted to be a writer - a novelist. I had dreamt of writing things that would eventually be held in the same esteem as the classics, but when my English professor told me my writing probably sucked, I got a wakeup call that maybe I should have a back up plan. Never did I ever imagine working from a couch in sweatpants, dealing with unrealistic customer expectations, and making a living somehow. In fact, if I spent enough time thinking about it, this was easy. I did not have to do any physical labor or even build and test code, I just had to make sure the customers liked the code and used the code. But then how was it so difficult for me to pull myself together right now and get on customer calls, smile, and act normal? Remembering the drug advertisements on TV with the gray blob and chemical imbalances in the brain made me wonder if that was my problem. I was literally a gray blob on this couch without an ounce of energy in me to live my life. 

I wanted to fully recline again, but I didn’t, I had a meeting in five minutes. I joined the bridge early and waited. Oh how I resented these smiling faces. All the women were perfectly made up in real clothes like real people. The men were the same without makeup but cleanly shaven and their hair styled. Then there was me, the gray blob, just barely getting through life. Did I even belong here? Surely there was something wrong with me. I was not like the others. I stayed off video and pretended to listen to what it was the others were saying. But if I were honest, I did not listen. I just imagined the feeling of being able to lay down again. 

I was relieved when the call was over, but my stomach rumbled and there was nothing in the kitchen that was palatable to eat. Again, some type A person filled the fridge with healthy foods that were good for you and required chopping and mixing and forming a salad. The last thing I wanted was a cold salad. I could barely stand up. Instead, I ordered Chinese. Yeah, there was no budget for it, but it was what I needed. While I waited for my order to arrive, I sat on the couch and scarfed down a bag of potato chips. I did not even want them, but my hand kept reaching into the greasy bag and shoving the crunchy junk into my mouth, cutting the roof of my mouth as I crunched. I promised myself of tomorrow that I would change, but right now I just needed to survive the day. 

Once my real lunch arrived, I was not hungry. The chicken was too sweet and the rice had a weird smell, like it was wrapped in a dryer sheet. I pecked at the meal but ultimately sat it to the side and reclined so that my work computer was on my lap. I had several unread instant messages from people I worked with. I wanted to ignore it. They were all probably messages asking for things. Then out of no where, I just began to cry. I wailed like a baby and then when I realized I was crying like a baby, it made me upset and cried some more. A woman in her thirties crying on a couch in sweat pants while she should be working. I could not think of a more pathetic scene. I did eventually get it together and answered the messages. But I kept an eye on the time and busied myself with a report. The second the clock struck five, I closed my computer and went straight upstairs. I took off my sweatpants and went to bed, and hoped to never wakeup again.