Stand Up

I'm sitting on the bathroom rug and I feel like I have nothing left inside of me. My entire body is shaking, and I want to claw a hole through my chest and scrape out this horrible, empty feeling that is rotting me from the inside out. I secretly wish for that implosion – just to finally end the dread of it.

I am crying with my entire body;

I'm starting to fold,

my chest heaves,

my throat tightens,

I want to scream but I’m too tired.

Almost instinctively, I raise my face and arms up to the dusty ceiling, tears pouring down my face, and I beg whatever the fuck is out there to help me. Help me because I can’t do this anymore, and I don’t want my daughter to lose her mother.

A quiet voice inside of my head, possibly my own, whispers to me then:

Stand up.

I don’t understand where the thought came from but it sounds impossible. I feel the weight of every burden – I’m just a collapsing camel in the sand.

Again, the voice, in the same tone and whisper:

Stand up.

But how can I? How can stand up with all of this on me, all of the time? I’m just not strong enough. I don’t know what to do next, or where to go. I don’t understand the purpose of any of this. How can I?

My mind begins to flood with all of my responsibilities, bills, and problems. My body slumps over further. I’m staring at the base of the toilet, and I’ve never felt so low.

Again, I hear it, slightly different this time:

All you have to do is stand up.

Well, what’s the point? Really? I don't see it. Why continue to push when there is so much bad?

Show me the point. Help me. Help me stand. If someone or something would just help me stand up this one time, maybe I could continue. Please…help me?

Again,

Stand up.

I have arrived at my lowest point. The pain and sadness are everything; they completely envelope me.

My mind is starting to go numb.

I want to sleep.

I want to sleep forever.

I want fly over skyscrapers in my dreams

and never come back down.

The voice is exactly the same, no more or less affected,

All you have to do, in this moment, is stand up.

I open my eyes. Everything around me is dull, and the lights don’t look the same. My vision feels off, and my limbs feel disconnected.

I notice one of my daughter’s bath toys out of the corner of my eye, and I nudge a single tear off of my face with my shoulder.

I grip the sides of the bath tub and pull myself up.

Standing in front of the mirror, I let out a breath.

I make eye contact with myself and whisper a promise to her:

“No matter what happens, or for how long I’m down, I will always stand back up.”