i wake up heavy. for a moment, i attempt to smile. but the weight of my everything presses down on me and i recede into the dark heaviness. be happy, i think, you have no reason not to be. work with me, i say to my brain, but it just fades away. i try so hard to control everything in my life, chasing dreams and success and recognition, but when i turn inwards it slips away. i’m always running, running, running, but i can’t define the finish line.

my body rises, slow-moving and uninspired. i go through the day, drinking tea to jolt my body toward a normal speed. as long as i keep running, it works. when i pause to take a breath, the heaviness comes crashing on to me and i reach my hand out from under it, gasping for another distraction, something i can control. let me study, i can master it. give me a book or a blank paper and i’ll luxuriate in the familiar ease of it all. but when i try to study my brain? the ease becomes oppression; i can understand and intellectualize the workings of my brain but i can’t shed the pounds of feeling. i’m a doctor who knows the anatomy lying underneath like the back of my hand, but i can’t get through the fat. i’m sad because of x, i say, i will feel better if i do y. do y, i say. please just do y.

i don’t do y. i start to try, then fall back. what if i try doing y and fail? failing, vulnerability: this is not me. i long to feel loved, fulfilled. but to be loved you must accept love; to be fulfilled you must make space. i open myself to too few people, too few experiences, and then demand too much of them. i was not raised to be vulnerable: i was raised to run. i was raised in privilege and i attack myself for this, questioning my right to be anything but happy. i look at the strange projection of myself that exists on a screen, pointing to my smiles and the people that surround me: look, you are happy. brain, be happy. do y. please just do y.