Sometimes I can feel the darkness enclosing on me, crushing my breath before it reaches my lungs. I can see the night swallow the sun, leaving me alone in the dark. Darkness does things to my mind, things that remind me I’ve never been who I’m supposed to be. I’ve always been too disappointing. The black sheep of the family, the outcast and nonconformist. I’ve always been bursting at the seams, but it is my fault. I cut myself open and stitch myself back together every night, hoping against all previous experience that something would change. 

You can’t stitch yourself back together, I’ve noticed. It never quite works. You stitch yourself loosely, knowing you can cut right through the seams the next day. You never quite finish the job, leaving a loose thread to pull apart when you can’t handle it anymore. Some nights I wish that the night would take me with the day, and spit me out the next morning. Maybe not. Maybe the night should just keep me, bury me in the sky and keep me there. I would rather be gone than here. Day after day, a monotonous routine of the same schedule, the same people, the same self. Why should I endure this? 

Endurance of the void is something I can only handle for so long. Nothingness is worse than sadness, because at least when I’m sad, I still feel. When it’s nothingness, I’m just floating in space. Nothing makes me happy, nothing makes me sad. I just pop a pill that they tell me will make me feel better, but numbness, I feel, is worse than whatever sadness I felt before. The numbness is just a hole I fall into, slipping away from myself. Simply going, going, going. 

I roll over, looking at the rising sun, climbing up the slats of my window and into my bed. It was too bright to keep looking. The clock read 4:48AM in bold green, and the flashing red light on top indicated my alarm set for 6:00AM was still active. I throw an arm over my burning eyes, determined to get at least a moments sleep. I know it’s too late to be granted that wish, but I can hope. I grope along my bedside table, looking for my necklace. My pulse starts to pick up as I feel around and find nothing, but eases right back down as I touch it. 

It is an old talisman, nothing but a small heart on a chain. I used to joke that it was the only heart I had, but it felt true. I have no friends, no love. Just a cold metal heart that can’t beat. My heart sits still in my chest, a heavy sadness stifling it from continuing to move. It is the same sadness that weighed on my bones, making it hard to move. The sadness that makes my head pound and my mouth dry. Just sadness in a little trinket. I put my hair in a bun as my mother used to, and my shoulders sag with the weight of her memory.

I watch as the night retches up the day and begins to sink slowly down. The sun rises like a painting, brush strokes over Eden, illuminating my biggest fear: aloneness. I have no one left. I live alone, I eat alone, I walk alone. I have no one with me in paradise, and so paradise is lost. I remember being 10 and invincible, nothing but bird song and my mother’s warmth. My chest caves in as I take a ragged breath. Remembering my mother is painful. She was light, happy, beautiful. She was snuffed out by a lump in her chest that she didn’t know was there. 

I slowly remove myself from the blankets, standing wobbly upright. In the bathroom stood my toothbrush, my toothpaste, and my bottle of pills. I shake one out and swallow it dry. No need for water when I’ve been taking these things since I was 15. The bathroom tile feels cold on my forehead, and I can’t tell if I like it or not. Sometimes it grounds me, pulls me here, back to my ever present life, and in other times it sends me spinning into space, floating and chilly. I wish I could stay here forever, cooled by some tile and a lack of love. 

I start the water for the shower, standing still as it warms up against my back. I feel so tired, emotionally drained like never before. What was the point, really, if all I felt was this mind numbing exhaustion. It takes all my effort to just feel things anymore. I have no drive, no energy, nothing left in my body to hold me up and keep me going. I’m just floating through life, unable to center myself, unable to fix anything. I am so tired.

I slide down the wall, sitting curled up beneath the water. Wouldn’t it be better if I just stayed here, comfortable and quiet? I am nothing but a burden, someone who always has to be picked up after. I can’t do anything right, so what was the point in trying to? I might as well just be out of the way for those who know how to live their lives. I have no family left anyway, it was just my father and I after the death of my mother, but I haven’t seen him since my birthday.

The misery drowns me as much as the water does- enough to feel it in my lungs but not enough to follow through. There was no purpose anymore. I’m just hanging in the dust, suspended in space above the life I was given. The water is warm and soothing, easing my muscles and releasing me from my responsibilities. Maybe I can just stay forever, let myself rust and fall away down the drain, no more to exist in this mortal plane. 

In the distance, I can hear the customary 5:45 train go by, the bells ringing. My first alarm to get out of bed. I continue to sit in the shower, unmoving. I don’t even have the energy to wash my hair or face. Just to sit. I wish I could melt into the tile and never rise back up. The exhaustion I carry is deep in my bones, nothing a nap could fix. Chronic fatigue, I’m told. Nothing I can fix. Not a hole in a blanket that I can sew, to keep the energy inside. Just a void. 

I am ready for eternal slumber. I hold my necklace against my chest as the tears fell, mixing in with the hot water from the shower. Here, there was no concept of time, no concept of responsibilities. I just exist in agony. I press my palm against the wall of the tub, feeling it cool me off instead of the heat from my tears. I can hardly get a breath with the steam, and I don’t care. Why shouldn’t I just pass out here, let the water run through my lungs and keep me down. I don’t want to exist anymore. 

My 6:00 alarm went off. I drip my way into my bedroom to turn it off, and back to the shower. I need to at least wash my hair before I get out. My arms feel like lead weights, but I make it through. I shut off the water and step into the cold bathroom. Goosebumps raise instantly but I don’t care. I slowly pull a shirt over my head, soaking it with the water I didn’t towel off. My pants get stuck part way up, my thighs too wet to slide. I shrug on a hoodie, and leave my room. Leaving feels strange, like abandoning a home. I never like it.

I sit uncomfortably at my kitchen table, trying to choke down cereal before I leave. I make coffee instead of finishing the bowl. I put the dishes next to the pile, and tell myself I’d do them tonight. I always tell myself I’ll do them later. I feel cold again, robotic. I tug on my heart, hoping for it to give me something. Hope, or energy at least. I don’t know if I can make it through the day. I never knew if I can make it through the day. 

I swipe my keys off the table, listening to the clatter echo through the empty room. My hand freezes on the doorknob, as if I can’t even make myself leave. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door, letting the sunlight in. I step onto the pavement, feeling the durability beneath my feet, strangely hard in comparison to my carpet. I haven’t been outside in days, the overwhelming feeling of despair crushing any desire to leave my bed. I trudge along, hands stuffed in pockets and head down. I don’t know where I’m headed. Anywhere but home. 

The wind cools my back, water still trickling down. I kick a rock in the path, sending it skittering to the side, over the edge of a bridge. I look out over the rushing water I hadn’t yet noticed. The white caps of the water called to me, compelling me to jump into its waves. I feel the spray off the waterfall gently misting my face, and I start to cry again, the second time that day. I feel the same darkness wash over me, outweighing the looks I was getting from the people around me. I sink to my knees, holding onto the railing for my life. I can’t keep the memories out anymore. 

I don’t know how long I am there, crouched by the rail, but eventually someone touches my back, a gentle touch, enough that I know they are present. I sniffle, turning to look. She is in a paint stained smock, her hair in a bun secured by a paintbrush. The tears double as the resemblance to the afternoons spent with my mother hits me. She croons something to me, soothing and calm, and the sobs subside. 

“Baby, come with me,” she says, helping me to my feet. I let her guide me into a pottery shop, where an unfinished teapot sits, half painted. She may not be my mother, but she is an angelic version of what I lost.

“Are you okay? Is there someone I can call for you?” she asks, rubbing my back in a small circle. 

I shake my head, and wipe the snot from my nose. She wipes away the tears from my cheeks, dabbing lightly with a tissue. She is warm and pleasant, and I try to hold back another wave of emotion. I have missed this feeling, the tenderness of a caretaker, someone who takes your pain and tells you its okay. She hands me a tissue, and I blow my nose, noisy and gross. She chuckles, brushing hair out of her face. 

“Thank you,” I say, blushing in embarrassment. This woman was kind enough to bring me here into her shop and treat me like her child, and I haven’t even thanked her. I scold myself. The sunlight coming in from the window doesn’t feel as harsh as it did this morning, but instead wraps around me like a blanket in bed. The breeze coming from the half-open door tousles my hair and moves through me like a blown kiss from the outdoors. This woman, this goddess, simply nods, pushing my thanks aside like a given.

“Can I make you some tea?” the offer stood like a beacon of hope. Maybe I could regain some composure. 

“That would be amazing, thank you so very much.”

She nodded, and asked, “What kind?”

“Any kind is fine. I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” she said, giving a soft smile, and leads me to the back, where a small electric water heater sits amid mess of papers. 

“Are you okay?” she repeats, and I realize I never answered her the first time.

“I’m fine. I was just remembering my mother. I guess my emotions got the best of me.” I shrugged, downplaying the pain. She squinted at me slightly, cocking her head to one side.

“You’re not okay, but it’s fine.”

“No, I’m not okay,” I admit, hanging my head. 

“What do you need?” 

Her question startles me. What do I need? I need love. I need hope. I need a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I can’t say these things to a stranger, but somehow they spill out of my mouth anyway.

“Oh, honey,” her lip trembles as tears start to fill her eyes instead of mine, “can I hug you?” 

I nod, and she wraps her arms around me. She smells like paint and cinnamon, like a ray of sunshine. If I could make a candle out of it, I’d burn it everyday. She runs her hand along my hair, making soothing noises. I don’t know if she is comforting me or herself. She lets go after a moment, and her eyes are still misty.

“You’re going to stay right here until I know you’re feeling better,” she says, and I know I have no choice but to oblige, if only for her sake. 

“I’m Theresa, I run this little pottery shop. Tell me about yourself, sweetpea.”

I open up, starting from the very beginning. She laughs in the right places, gets teary when I talk about my mother, and never says a word. Just listens. I feel lighter as I speak, the little heart warming against my chest as the sunlight hits it. I feel strange, content and happy in this little corner of the world. When I am finished, I feel like a heavy weight has lifted off my chest. The void no longer ebbs at my feet, but stays a few feet behind, manageably far. Maybe the light can be good to me too.