4:07pm. I have to get ready for work, so I press 'play' on my pump up playlist (currently featuring Kanye West) and try to trick my body into think it has enough energy to do this.
I look in the mirror. My hair is on its fourth day post-wash. I need to wash it. It's butt length and Rapunzel-like and let's face it, frickin' majestic. But it needs to be washed. And with that thought, my feet tingle, as if they know what comes next.
4:08pm. I'm in the bathroom. I've disrobed. The mirror tells me I have the sex appeal of a baby giraffe but that's okay, because the mirror only gets me from the shoulders up, so in a way, it's a relief. But I digress.
I reach for my hairbrush, the first step. Detangling my long locks is a process requiring both determination and aggression. But today, my hair has decided to be difficult. Today, it takes just a little too long.
It starts in my pinky finger. A slight tingle, like the feeling you get when pins and needles are on their way but not just yet. Then it goes numb. My forearm stiffens, and holding my thumb to the brush becomes an almost impossible task. 4:12pm. It's taken too long already, but I'm still going. I swap arms to see if that's any easier. Nope. Then -
- oh. There it is. My knee has had enough. "You've been standing in the one place too long, so I'm gonna make you miserable." The feeling can only truly be conveyed through ridiculous imagery:
I see teeny tiny little evil elves in my knee with super sharp fingernails, grating my muscle slowly and painfully, and screaming in delight. They want to see it ripped to pieces. That's what they're doing.
The nearest seat is the toilet. It's 4:13pm. I sit. My knee feels instant relief but I know that time is ticking away and damn it, I need to get ready for work. So I try to resume brushing my hair. As I gradually bring my arm up once more, my upper arm feels like boiling water has seeped through my pores and started melting my flesh down to bone. I bring my arm down. That pain is momentary, but horrific. I hate it. I start to fantasise about shaving my head. That'd make life so much easier, wouldn't it?
It's 4:18. I've spent the last five minutes trying to brush this one knot out of my hair, and now I'm ready for a shower. With my left foot pushed against the tile wall, my left hand on my knee and my right hand on the edge of the basin, I push. I try to stand. I can't. So I sit. Breathe. Breathe. Round two. I push. Nothing. Down I go. The shame is worse than the pain at this point; what kind of person can't do this? I can't ask for help. I'm naked, I'm sitting on the toilet, and it's not pretty. So I breathe. Hoping that I can do it. Hoping that I can still do it.
Hoping that today isn't the day I can't do it anymore.
It's 4:26. Yeah. It's taken that long. You wouldn't believe that. If you're a friend of mine, you might suddenly understand why I'm late to some gatherings. No amount of prep time is long enough to guarantee an on-time arrival. But again, I digress.
Stepping into the shower, I reach out for the cool tap and get that hot water going. As the shower floor is covered in water, my toes curl slightly and everything becomes a challenge. I'm slipping. I can't. Stop. Slipping. Shifting my weight from one foot to another, I stand directly under the stream to get my hair wet enough to shampoo.
I'm already over it. I'm done. It's taking all of my energy to just refrain from slipping, and standing in the one spot for too long will slowly take its toll. I know what's coming. I ignore it.
My hair has been shampooed and conditioned, but the steam is getting to me. I overheat easily, that's just a perk. A benefit to being me. And this is what I've been trying to ignore. This time, it comes over me quicker than I can think. I just about manage to stumble out of the shower, holding onto the towel rack and the shower screen. I plonk on the toilet and lean back, resting my head against the wall. Short breaths. Sharp breaths.
I see dark spots. I see light spots. I see glitter. I feel the blood rushing through my body and my heart thumping slowly, but I can't feel anything else. Is the room spinning? A little. Am I going to throw up? Possibly. Who knows. It's anyone's guess at this point.
It's 4:42. The shower's still running. I can't get up to turn it off. I'm coming around a little, so I reach for the basin, run my hand under the freezing cold water and splash it on my forehead. That's better. I can do this. Splash. Splash. We're getting there.
Somehow - I don't know how - I manage to get up. I mean, sure, everything goes black for a second. But I'm up. Some quick thinking leads me to believe I have approximately three minutes of standing time remaining. Perfect. Back in the shower I go.
A quick body wash with the speed of a thousand gazelles, shower off, grab towels, grab brush, walk to my room.
One towel is wrapped around my hair, the other goes on the bed, and I lie down. I breathe. Today, I cry. Because today was hard. A lot harder than it needed to be. And I know that this right here is the reason I don't wash my hair as frequently as I should. This is the reason I cancel plans last minute. This is the reason I rejoice when my friends want to visit me at home.
It's not always this hard. But some days, it is.
It's 4:59. I need to leave the house in ten minutes to make it to work on time. Messy bun. Undies. Bra. F*ck. I can't... Can I get my bra clasp done? My mum's not home to help, damn it. It's just me. Can I - ah. There. Got it. Finally. Okay. Pants. Work shirt. Shoes. Keys. Bag. Glasses.
5:08pm. I need to leave... but opt to take two nurofen, sit a few minutes, and hope that my body has mercy on me tonight.
When I go to work tonight and people ask me how I am, I'll say 'I'm well, thank you!' Because when society tells you that your life could be much worse and people pointedly question why you don't put more effort into your appearance, you know it's not worth fighting.
It takes too much energy.
And today, I have none left.
