Surviving

NO EMERGENCY I showered. I shaved. I answered every mail. I laughed at something stupid in the freezer aisle at twelve. No ambulance. No scene. Nothing anybody else could see. No emergency— I only disappeared a little more with every passing day. I kept my job, I fed the dog, I cleaned the house, I learned exactly what to do and what they needed me to say. No emergency— no open wound, no damage you could see. If this is what surviving looks like from the outside, then from in here it looks a lot like losing me. I bought the milk. I paid the rent. I stood in line for bread. I made a joke to stop my sister asking what I meant. I wore clean clothes. I showed up. I did what people do. No one could see what it cost me to look as normal as you. No breakdown. No proof. Just everything I learned to do. No emergency— I only disappeared a little more with every passing day. I kept my job, I fed the dog, I cleaned the house, I learned exactly what to do and what they needed me to say. No emergency— no open wound, no damage you could see. If this is what surviving looks like from the outside, then from in here it looks a lot like losing me.