Fuck the Stages. I’m Numb.

My watch reads 9:07 a.m.

Flickering fluorescents.

Yellow stained teeth.

Bright pink lipstick.

Ill executed good intentions.

Her voice drones on.

Stale coffee breath.

Why are these chairs so close?

Slanted wall frame.

She's looking.

Oh. She's looking at me. Nod.

I'm not sure what I answered but it's obviously sufficient as she continues on.

Focus. Watch her mouth form the words. Focus. Try to listen.

Fuck. It's pointless.

Excess lipstick fills the wrinkles of her lips.

Her eyeliner droops on one side.

Her glasses have left an indentation.

The picture on her desk, a young family.

She has kids and grandkids.

No wedding ring on her finger. Divorced, widowed, or simply unmarried.

Motivational posters plaster an entire wall.

I check the reflection of her computer screen in a photo behind her. 9:35 a.m.

I can't check my watch again. It's rude.

"It's okay, we can help you get through this."

I stare at her. I want to believe that so incredibly much it consumes me entirely.

Can she? Can they? Can I? Will it all "be okay"? Will I finally be more than fine?

This is happening.

She's talking. I sign something.

10:00 a.m.

I didn't eat breakfast. I probably won't eat lunch either. I'm never hungry anymore.

I get up, gather my things and exchange pleasantries.

I walk to my car. I'm tired. 10:45 a.m.

I drop my keys on the table. I fall into bed.

I sleep.

You've asked me what my pain feels like.

It feels like this.

It feels like exactly nothing

accompanied by sheer exhaustion.