I really should have been at work right now, but I haven’t yet summoned the energy to leave my house.
I haven’t yet worked through this 1,000-ton load in my chest.
I haven’t yet taken one sip of coffee.
I haven’t yet had the patience to hide the evidence of the tears I (finally) shed.
I am a bag of bones sitting here dispiritedly.
And the knowledge that things feel lighter once I’m around people and out of my little hole is not helping me.
The voices urging me to get going and make my to-do list shrink are accomplishing nothing.
The ticking clock in my brain is not mobilizing me.
I’m immovable. Sitting on my chair, staring into space. Trying half-heartedly to coax the hollow in my chest to talk to me. Wishing to be in one place: wrapped tightly in my blanket and resting my weary bones — and wearier soul.
It doesn’t really take that much to get out of dowdy house clothes and into something presentable, right?
It doesn’t really take that much to take that first sip of bone-warming (gag) coffee, right?
It doesn’t really take that much to go out for a few measly hours and work, right?
It doesn’t really take that much to make one bed, two beds, or straighten up some clutter that I couldn’t deal with last night, right?
Wrong.
It takes lifting weighted limbs, so heavy, they feel lifeless.
It takes forcing myself through an impenetrable fog to my closet and making sense of what’s there.
It takes clearing through a network of cobwebs and remembering how to string together sentences.
But first it takes getting up from this chair.
And that task is just too daunting.