Fuck mental illness. Fuck it all.
Forcing myself up, I shuffle my way into the kitchen. The bright light streams in through the open window, making me squint. I guess I forgot to close the blinds last night. Outside, Gena is sitting in her rocking chair smoking a joint. It’s not even noon and I’m tempted to join her. Not to socialize, but to numb the emptiness. Weed is good for that.
Clematis perches herself on the edge of the kitchen island, paws together, sitting as pretty as can be. Her mismatched eyes are wide as she waits for me, judging my every move.
“It’s not fair that you get food before I get coffee, you know.”
She flicks her ears impatiently.
After scooping some kibble into her bowl, I add some of her favorite gravy from a pouch in the fridge, then set it in front of her.
“There you go, Your Royal Highness.”
The comment makes me think of Miles—the guy from the Plant Daddies group I’d chatted with last night. He’d called Clematis a princess.If he only knew how demanding the feline could actually be.
While she chomps away, I hit the brew button on the coffeemaker and wander back to my bed, craving the comfort and familiarity of the room. I’m too awake to go back to sleep, but not awake enough to actually do anything. And even if I was, I still wouldn’t want to.
Pretty much sums up the endless torture that is my life.
I search for something—anything—to drag me through the sludge of sadness. Anchor points, my therapist calls them. Little pieces of feel-good somethings to get me through the slumps.
It sounded like toxic positivity when she’d first described it to me, but honestly? They’re the best trick… theonlytrick that actually helps. Outside of my meds, that is. They’ve trained me to look for the good, since depression has made me an expert at highlighting the bad.
Sometimes, the anchors are the only thing that gets me through a shift at work. They help me mask my emotions until I’m home.
Because, unfortunately, wallowing in bed doesn’t pay the bills.
The hole in my chest pulses, threatening to drown me in sorrow. Curling into my pillow, I stare out the window that faces the back side of our residential trailer park. For close to two and a half years, I’ve enjoyed watching the horses in the pasture behind us. Last week, a new guy moved in with his dumbass fifth wheel, blocking my view. Now all I see is his fancy slide out. I hate the thing. Makes my high-end motorhome seem not so high-end.
Anchor points, Jordan. Find the fucking anchor points.
I search deeper. The only anchor I can find this morning is the chat I had with Miles. He’d somehow made me laugh, despitethe crash from socializing. I'd been drowning in the darkness, and our brief conversation felt like a lifeline.
Rolling onto my back, I reach for my vape and draw in a long pull. The coffee flavor swirls through my lungs and coats my teeth as I exhale. I watch it drift upward, disappearing into nothing. Makes me wish I could go with it. Disappear from this pit of emptiness.
Grow up, son.
I grit my teeth. Thirteen years since my dad died, and his voice still lives in my head. Asshole. But at least I know it isn’t just my “intense emotions.” It’s my good-for-nothing brain.
Chronic depression,the doc called it.
I just call it hell.
Reaching for my phone, I re-read the conversation with Miles, trying to pull some of that goodness back to the surface. It doesn’t work, but at least it gives me something to focus on instead of the hole in my chest.
Without warning, Clematis jumps on the bed, a little closer to my head than usual. I drop the phone trying to avoid her, and when I pick it up, my finger taps the thumbs up emoji in the chat box.Fuck.Why does Messenger even have that stupid thing, anyway? It’s as annoying as the “poke” button used to be when Facebook first became a thing.
I scramble to delete the message before Miles sees it and thinks I’m a weirdo. But before I can, he replies with an even larger thumbs up.
I can’t help but snort.
“Going to be like that, huh,” I mutter to no one.
I take another drag, then press and hold the icon, making it as big as it’ll go before sending.
Miles replies with a laughing cry face.
Me:That was all Clem. She startled me and I bumped the screen.
