Promises

At six a.m. I woke with a toothache. The skies were hazy, but pink streaks reflected on the passing clouds: sunrise. The heavy ball of lead lay unrelenting in my gut, my body still frozen in inertia. Still no images or words painted themselves in my mind to explain the darkness. It simply lay there, like an unwelcome guest that was bound to ruin your party, it just would not reveal when. I cried at some point, but it was unsatisfying, stupid. They called me out for a coffee, for sunshine, to feel the baby kick. I sat on their couch and knew I could not stay long. I dared not look them in the eye for fear of revealing the void.

I went home and buried myself in the bathtub. The water excrutiatingly warm, I scrubbed every inch of my skin, every twist of my body, I scrubbed until it was sore, flushed. I found an open bottle of wine, poured great big glassfuls even though it had already turned to vinegar. I spilled on the floor and did not bother cleaning it up.

If it is time, bring it on. Beat me to a pulp and leave me panting on the shoreline. 

But don't make me do it myself. 

Perhaps it must get worse, before it gets better. Perhaps this is the better. You know these encroaching walls, you know this ravaging demon. Perhaps the apathy of winter is not when you are dead.

It might just be the break you get, from yourself.