Abigail sits at home on her bed. She is comfortable curled up in her blankets. She has not felt like moving in a while. She should get up and eat she knows, but she just doesn’t have any motivation. There’s no pressing reason why she should get out of bed but she racks her brain trying to think of one.

She tries not to let herself fall into a cycle of laying in bed all day when she hits a rough patch. She has them sometimes, days where she can’t will herself out of bed or off the couch or floor. She’s hit by a dizzying sadness, although she dodged a bullet when there is only rarely despair.

The sadness paralyzes her sometimes, only lets her move when she begins to cry. Sometimes she regrets trying to be independent, wishing for someone to take care of her. She knows she would never be okay with that, being dependent on someone. So she sits alone in her house waiting for this to pass.

She was let off lightly when it came to her bad days, she knows that sometimes she won’t see someone for weeks before they come back. She knows that when the twins squirrel themselves away wherever they live, sometimes she’ll see one twin coming out for food and she’s always worried because you just don’t see one twin without the other, it’s a scene where something is off. She doesn’t have to worry about things like that.

She gets sad, sure, but it stops there. There’s no hopelessness, no spiralling into thoughts, no overwhelming self-hatred. It’s mild even though it incapacitates her. She gets up and she gets moving again in a matter of a week or so. Her off days are more frequent than any others but it’s worth it for the blessed load off of her back that is the full-blown horror.

She’s only made herself feel worse thinking about this stuff. She probably thinks about stuff way too much. She rolls over and goes back to sleep. She doesn’t know what time it is.