There is an abyss inside my bed and quicksand on my floor

A poem
Photograph: Getty images

This insidious disorder. This stealthy but massive disease. She takes my hand, she holds it, but her warmth just makes me freeze.

She isn’t just a thief of the night, no, that I could combat. It’s my days she steals that stifle me, I find my behavior meek in situations where I was once brash.

Could she be stronger than me? It seems certain that she is. How then does gravity beat her out and jail her down here with me instead?

Her weight is on my head and she’s smothering me into my bed. No calls will be answered, those messages will fall into the abyss

which resides inside my bed or possibly only inside of my head. I search and I scour for evidence but its physical proof cannot be seen. Please know I don’t want to be inconsiderate, but right now I just can’t be considered to be me.

I just want to fill it up a bit, the abyss that sucks me so, so I don’t fall so deeply during the next demise that I already intimately know.

But wait, something is happening and I call out for her. She takes her time and she lures me with promises of the sun.

Dragging me out of my hole, she deceitfully swings me to the opposite pole. “here! meet mania; we’ll see you in three days”

So now I’ve returned 15 messages and made it through a voicemail with no tears or fear or any indifference. I even attended a lunch conference without malaise or misplaced deference.

Right now I don’t just want to want, but I want instead, to live a life with some light why does she insist on the dark instead?

I see the light and grab for it as abstract as the gesture may seem. It is my desperation that has brought her back to me.

I want a life and I reach for it, hormones swirl inside my head. Does this sound like progress? Yes! I thought so too, but she’s not a swish and swallow, she’s the girl who engulfs you.

Now I’m up and moving but I won’t be for long. It’s just time enough to make some plans to be abandoned soon instead. And yes I was genuine when we made plans today; the problem is my follow through, my social life decays.

She’s a metastatic disaster, no matter that she feels benign. She hardens me like plaster then shatters me on the wall. Maybe she is mental too, she sure puts on a show.

But don’t misunderstand her, she has her struggles too. For just like me she’s fighting for the life she had before. She is not benign but she is not unkind. She picks me up, she glues me, she lays me into my abyss. This is the last effort she will ever come to invest.