the lying days

I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. It’s mostly all I can do. I fall asleep by nine, usually with the lights on, and I’m up by seven for tea and breakfast, after which I go back to sleep. I catnap through the afternoon and have whiskey for dinner and then it’s bed by nine again. This is the extent of my days. I don’t pick up the phone when it rings. People who are calling me: My mother. It’s not healthy she says. She asked if I needed to be put in a hospital and I laughed and said of course not, but I wonder. Erin, the only friend I’ve really got left, calls every week or so. She leaves a halting voicemail. I hope you’re okay. I haven’t heard from you. We’re going to that new bar on Windsor tomorrow if you want to come. I always reply with a text message: I’m fine won’t make it out have fun xo.

I don’t think my boyfriend cares enough to notice that something’s wrong. While I’m sleeping, he’s playing guitar, or at the gym, or sketching plans for the restaurant he thinks we’re going to open together. At night, he moves on top of me and I stay mostly still until I come, and even then I’m quiet. Afterward, I cry in the bathroom for all that I don’t feel.

I don’t think that anything can save me: Not medication, not love, not worried phone calls. I think I’ve already given up, only I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. It’s all I can do to lay in bed and think about how I’ve managed to fuck up my life so disastrously.