eve lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. she can hear the city traffic outside her window, the noise of cars and buses and horns invading her space, breaking through the grey predawn light with a harsh reminder of reality. the noise and the light invade the safety of her room, intruding on her thoughts as physical, sensory reminders that she is a part of a real world, a world that will not stop moving, will not even slow down to accommodate her.
she sighs, and it takes more effort than it should, the rise and fall of her chest not coming as naturally as it normally does. it’s like there’s a weight that’s settled there, an anvil holding her down despite the fact that she isn’t even trying to get up.
she needs to get up. she hasn’t checked the time yet, but based on the light and amount of noise outside, she’s already late. she’s definitely missing breakfast, at the very least. she can’t bring herself to care, though normally the idea of being late sends jolts of panic through her.
( what does it matter if she’s late, anyway? does it matter? does anything? )
“get out of bed,” she tells herself, speaking firmly to the ceiling, though her voice comes out as a croak. “on three. one, two, three,” on three, she manages to heave herself to a sitting position, but she stops there, now staring at her dresser on the opposite wall rather than the ceiling.
“alright,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. “too ambitious. good job for sitting up.” she scowls as tears leak out of the corners of her eyes -- this is pathetic. she shouldn’t have to encourage herself and praise herself just for sitting up, for doing such simple tasks, but the articles she read online about it said that this might be a useful strategy for dealing with these...episodes.
( they called them depression. eve is terrified of that word, so she just calls them episodes. )
“get out of the covers,” she tells herself, and doesn’t even have to count this time before doing it. she manages a weak smile at that, silently congratulating herself for it. “feet on the floor.” with a little effort, she scoots to the edge of the bed and sets her feet on the floor, jolting slightly at the cold wood against her bare feet. the sensation helps drag her mind a little bit farther of the grey fog it’s been in, and she reaches over and turns the lamp on without telling herself to. it turns the grey light from the window into a soft, warm light that fills the room, making it feel a bit more like morning and a bit less like dementors had suddenly come to visit.
“stand up,” she says, taking a deep breath. “one, two, three,” she counts, pushing herself to a standing position on the last number. she stands there for a moment, swallowing around her frustrated tears, trying to be proud of herself for accomplishing that step and to be thankful that she’s feeling anything, even if it is frustration with herself.
she goes through her usual routine of getting ready, but much more slowly than usual, as she pauses between tasks and tells herself what the next step is -- squeeze out toothpaste. put cap back on tube. run toothbrush under water. brush your teeth.
she finishes her routine at seven o’clock, looking at herself in the mirror with no makeup on and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. her clothes are clean, her newest set of leggings and a familiar sweatshirt whose weight sits comfortably on her shoulders, like a constant hug. she searches her expression, marking the signs of exhaustion and the beaten-down expression that is just her natural resting face these days. “smile,” she tells herself, and she does.
