More and more these days, she struggles to wake up in the morning. The weight of her anxiety keeps her curled up in bed.
As she gains consciousness, the aches in her body remind her that she’s still alive. She feels simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
She uses all of her willpower to throw off the covers and roll out of bed. The floor is like sharp stones under her feet. The walk from her bedroom to the kitchen feels like running a marathon.
It hurts to move but when the smell of coffee starts to fill the kitchen, she starts to feel better. It’s the little things like these that keep her going.
All you need to do today is finish that presentation deck, she tells herself.
Just one more slide, she says. And then when that’s done, just one more slide, she says again. She works in a daze, her body moving of its own accord.
Her body revels in the knowledge that this is an easy pace, that it won’t be pushed beyond its limit. That it will be allowed to rest when its tired, unlike other times.
Other times, it is kept up late into the night, then shaken awake in the wee hours of the morning. It is plied with caffeine throughout the day, then soothed with alcohol at night.
When the work of the day is done, her body drags itself back into bed. It’s still the afternoon but on days like these, her mind is too weak to protest.
And this is the only way her body knows to keep going.