The Chair

it’s monday. the worst day of the week. it’s monday, and the chair is uncomfortable. you’d think it would be this paragon of relief, considering the secrets spilled between corduroy arms. considering the gut-wrenching sobs that eek out between usually tight lips. considering the amount of money spent and the time delegated and the trauma re-lived. when you sit in a chair like this, and you say the things you say, you think you’ll at least be comfortable while doing it. but you’re not. and it’s a crock of shit. everything hurts. your back, your stomach, your heart, your asscheeks. everything hurts, whether it’s from the uncomfortable chair or the uncomfortable questions, the forgotten coffee on the counter, the last cigarette in the pack, or something else entirely. it’s monday, everything hurts, and you realize the whole reason you’re here is because you need someone to answer the same question you’ve been asking for months: what happened?

it’s tuesday, and it’s cold. your fingers burn on the steering wheel as you drive to get fast food for the hundredth time - because cooking just reminds you of the meals you’ll never eat again. meals made with love and care and pieces of soul, the kind you used to dream of creating yourself. meals made by hands stronger than yours. hands that have seen hell, and death, and still managed to create something so beautifully delicate that you didn't even want to eat it. it’s tuesday, and the french fries are upside down in the bag, colder than your hands, colder than the last reply - typed out by those beautiful hands - from all those months ago, colder than the pit in the bottom of your stomach that just won’t go away every time you see food videos on instagram. recipes they’d love. trends they probably hate. combinations they’d kill to try. it piles up, taller than the fries in the bottom of the bag, until your sandwich is covered and the sauce is buried so deep, you’re sure it’s not there anymore.

it’s thursday now. wednesday passed too rapidly; through blurred eyes, through the sting of running mascara, through a sea of too-soft-blankets and room temperature white claw. miles of stale oreos, movie marathons from an easier time. you float in and out of consciousness so often, it eventually blends together. one minute, hedwig was a birthday present, and the next, she was dead. your thumb hurts from scrolling aimlessly on your phone, your eyes hurt from overexposure to blue light. it’s thursday, and it all still hurts, and you just can’t stop thinking about it. you can’t stop thinking about monday, and tuesday; how you’ve spent too many mondays and tuesdays and too many fucking wednesdays watching blurry marathons and simultaneously trying to figure out monday’s question. and now wednesday’s question. why weren’t you enough?

it’s friday. you decide to take it easy on yourself. relax a bit. let a little sunlight in. you throw open the windows on a weirdly warm winter afternoon. turn the music all the way up. wash a pot or two. take a real shower. with soap. before you know it, you’re smiling. it’s friday, you’re smiling, the cat is rubbing against your leg while you water the plants, and you don’t work the next day. there’s a glimmer of hope - a sudden, bright light in the never-ending darkness. the possibility that every day might be like this again is enough motivation to get you to finish the dishes, even vacuum. you’re invincible now. you’re moving on, you’re healing, you’re organizing old drawers filled to the brim with junk. you’re singing along to the upbeat songs, thinking about painting your nails. and then you find the photo. from that one time where everything was perfect. back when every day was like this. and then you remember that today is only special because it’s rare, so you go lie down because you’re exhausted, and before you know it, it’s saturday.

it’s saturday, and the hope from yesterday fluttered away faster than the photo when you angrily threw it in the trash - like it didn’t want to go, like even the inanimate objects linking you begged you to hold on, to remember when it was everything, to cement the best time in your life behind your eyelids and in the back of your mind to agonize over for eternity; it’s saturday, and food has lost its taste, colors and sounds don’t mesh anymore, friends and strangers look the same and everything turns to ash before you get a chance to sleep through it or to mask it with rum or gin or tequila or whatever else you can get your hands on because nothing matters anymore and they’re just gone with no explanation and there never will be an explanation and - it’s monday.

it’s monday. you don’t even remember sunday, you’re in the uncomfortable chair and your ring is back on your right hand. you talk of cigarettes and upside down fries, of newly-watered plants and the almost-okay-day. you talk of hedwig, and buried sandwiches, and blurry marathons just - slips out. you pick at the uncomfortable chair. you zero in on the frayed hem, and you admit losing wednesday, thursday’s uncontrollable anger, not even remembering the day before. gut-wrenching sobs burst through usually tight lips and you ask - you ask the question you’ve been pondering for months. you choke out your broken plea. you ask what happened and you wait. and it isn’t until hours or weeks or sometimes months later that you realize the answer is everything that happened while you were trying to figure it out. you realize the answer is yours to choose, to decide. and eventually, one day, you choose to heal. you decide to accept your responsibility. to forgive yourself. to love who you became in their absence. and to finally understand you have always been enough.

and that’s when you realize the chair wasn’t so uncomfortable, after all.