I feel heavy.
I feel heavy all the time.
I feel heavy in the morning when I wake and I have to haul my huge ass up and swing my legs down to the floor.
I feel heavy as I stand and my muscles almost cripple below me, my joints aching and whirring into life.
I feel heavy as I lower myself to the toilet seat, exhaling deeply and staring down at my hands.
I feel heavy as I move around, making coffee and checking the mail and choosing breakfast and feeding the bunnies. Everything is an effort.
I feel heavy as I sit back in bed, balancing the laptop precariously on my lap and furrowing my brow, attempting to push thoughts to the forefront of my mind.
I feel heavy when I put the laptop down and decide what I’m going to do with the rest of my day.
Should I do laundry or that pesky ignored tidying or should send those emails or should I read – but I just can’t find the energy to invest myself in a piece of growing, evolving text – or should I play video games and while away my time left on this earth in a few pixels and empty, worthless achievements.
I feel heavy as I ponder this, then shrink down under the duvet.
I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes.
Later, when the sky is dyed with a murky, inky blue, spilling out over the horizon, I feel heavy.
I feel heavy as I lift myself to bed.
I feel heavy as I shift below the covers, and search for an element of comfort.
I feel heavy as I drift into acidic sleep.
I feel heavy as I wake, periodically, throughout the night – sweating profusely, and filled with the kind of vivid, bizarre dreams you might expect either from a psychopath, or a creative genius. I don’t feel like either.
I feel heavy as I try to roll over and find sleep again.
I feel heavy, so heavy. And I don’t think it has anything to do with how much I weigh.
Vickye Fisher © July 2016. All Rights Reserved.