I can’t do anything. Do you know what it’s like, to be unable to move? Unable to get out of bed? I can’t make coffee, I can’t hug my boyfriend when he leaves for work. I can’t pick up the phone. I can’t watch a movie. I can’t brush my hair. I can’t ride my bike and I can’t go for a walk. I can’t get in the car and go. I can’t cook dinner, and I can’t meet friends for a drink. I can’t get drunk anymore. I can’t eat a burrito. I can’t sing. I can’t laugh. I can’t speak. I can barely feel a thing. I haven’t spoken to my parents in ages and I know they’re worried—theirs are the phone calls I don’t pick up. But I can’t bear to answer and I can’t pick up the phone and dial their number and say, hello, I love you and I miss you. I can’t go to class and I can’t read books. And I can’t fucking stand looking at pictures of a smiling blond girl who is totally unrecognizable, a different me than the one that struggles, listless, through each day.
