The effort of opening eyes and shifting limbs. Of dragging a body through 90 degrees and placing heavy feet on a cold floor. And then the near impossibility of placing all that weight on those two small feet and lifting your body to a standing position.
The exhaustion of moving, as if through neck-deep water, a current pulling at your limbs.
And then facing the day, pulling on the cloak of falseness and secrecy, of fake smiles and “I’m OK”s; battling to suppress tears and hopelessness. The fight is tiring and tiresome; it’s little wonder that isolation becomes so appealing so quickly.
But then, collapsing in bed at night – earlier and earlier – the eyes won’t stay closed and sleep won’t come.
Even now, at a time when things are brighter and hope trickles through once in a while, the exhaustion lingers on. Sleep is better but still intermittent. The need to wear the weighty coat of fakery lessens but carrying it around remains a requirement for now. The water is shallower but it skips at the calves and the current pulls.
So I nap when I need to and as often as I can and the mattress has a familiar dip from the constant weight. I walk and hope that some exercise will kick start a rush of energy and I think back in wonder at times when I could dance all night.