I cannot get out of bed
I cannot get out of bed. I am able-bodied and breathing and I cannot get out of bed. I let the weight of the blanket sink me further into my mattress and start to involuntarily hold my breath. I am perfectly healthy, and yet something chemical in my brain has started to weaken my bones. I am absurdly aware of everything around me. I am also absurdly aware of what people like to refer to this feeling as. I do not want to be condemned to a life of therapy and countless bottles of pills, but I cannot get out of bed. The ceiling fan is on high speed, and I can see the day wasting away outside of my window. I can hear dogs barking and children scream-laughing all the way from my third story apartment. I imagine the lives all of these people are living; I wonder if the dogs are getting tired out in the sweltering summer heat, if the children are anxiously anticipating the start of school, if there are other people in this apartment building, who like me, cannot get out of bed. Everything around me stops for a moment, and I use this time to refocus my breathing. As the air fills my lungs, I realize my legs have gone numb. I also realize that if I do not leave this bed soon, I may never leave. That idea instills a terror in me I cannot describe. Suddenly, I have a thought that charges at me with immediate force: "You cannot stay like this." I use that little source of motivation to move my feet around in circular motions. I feel my legs regaining circulation, and know that this cannot be my reality forever, that if I ever want to be one of those people outside, walking my dog and soaking in the heat and scream-laughing, I have to move; quickly, before the chemical imbalance convinces me otherwise. With every force of strength inside of me, I stand up. The act of standing on my own two feet: so simple, and yet I am almost brought to tears. I got out of bed. I got out of bed.
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