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But I hold on tight, pressing my lips to her soft, furry head. “Go, Gracie,” I whisper. She looks at me confused, and I fight tears, registering her look of betrayal before she turns and runs to the driver’s side of Riggins’ truck, where he is holding the door open and waiting for her to jump in. Before she does, though, she looks back at me as if checking on me. I nod like she would listen to me after all this time, but she moves, jumping into his truck when she sees it.
He climbs in behind her, slams the door, and drives off.
I watch his truck drive down my driveway and head back toward wherever he’s staying. I walk into my kitchen and stare at the space I’ve tried to make for myself, noting the lack of color, the monotony, and the predictability that are perfect mirrors of my life these days.
And then I fall to the ground and sob until there’s nothing left but numbness.
4 HOWLING
NOW
STELLA
Wednesday morning, I feel the bone-deep exhaustion that makes it harder than normal to leave my bed. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be gone for long, the foggy blanket of depression, but it’s been a good while since my last episode.
Recurrent brief depression, my psychiatrist calls it. I call it the waters.
My life is like the ocean.
Sometimes, I’m at the top, floating on my back, the sun on my face. Happy, warm. Whole.
Other times, I’m in the deepest, dark blue depths, so cold I can’t remember what the sun feels like anymore. I'm numb.
So I spend my days on the edge of a knife, knowing that if I stay directly on the blade, I can swim in the happy blue sea, but the slightest breeze can send me plummeting into something dark. It becomes an emptiness in my soul, the wind blowing inside, howling within me.
It’s a constant battle, but I don’t want it to win today, so I force myself to roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, squinting as I flick the light on. I use the toilet, diligently avoiding the mirror as I wash my face and brush my teeth and hair, clipping it back, all while avoiding the gaze of the stranger in the mirror. I don’t want to see the blankness on her face, the bags under her eyes, the redness from my late-night crying jag.
Instead, I head downstairs to start the day, continuing my routine even though I’m off today. It helps, I’ve found, to continue the routine on days I feel the dark waters creeping up.
Shuffling to the kitchen, I flip on the coffee maker, grab a slice of bread, and slip it into the toaster before opening the cabinet above the coffee maker. Meticulously, I pull out three orange bottles, opening each and tapping until the pills fall into my hand. I then return them to their home and knock the pills back with water.
Getting medicated was the best decision I ever made for myself, but it requires routine, which has never been a strength of mine, especially on mornings when I feel that all-too-familiar weight in my legs. It’s like treading through the shallow end of a pool. Every step takes just a bit more effort than normal.
While waiting for the coffee and toast to be made, I shuffle back to my bedroom, grab a white tee and a pair of jeans, and slide them on before combing my hair and putting it into a French braid.
I don’t bother with makeup, a tiny rebellion against my mother, who believes leaving the house without a full face is a capital offense.
I may have shifted to fit my parents’ mold, but no matter how deep I bury myself there, the little rebel still holds onto the small pieces of the old me I let her grasp.
Drinking my coffee and munching on toast, I note how quiet my house is for the first time in a long time. When I bought what had been my dream house since I was young, I slowly started to fix it up on my own. Even though there are four bedrooms, I stopped with just the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and main bedroom.
It’s a majestic farmhouse, but I’m just one person. One day, I realized there was no point in fixing it beyond the needed rooms, so I stopped. It never bothered me before, though. But for some reason, the creaking of the wind against the outside, the emptiness… it feels heavy. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through my nose, praying it’s not the start of another episode. It usually starts this way: taking note of how my life didn’t amount to what I once was sure it would.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts before they take hold, and at five-thirty, I grab my keys, hop in my car, and head down to the Ashford Diner to start another day of blissful monotony.
“Hey, Sandy,” I mumble distractedly as I walk into work in a daze I can’t seem to shake. To be fair, that’s how every moment has felt since yesterday afternoon: a daze.
Because Riggins is in town.
Riggins is in town, and he came to my house.
He’s in town with Gracie. That alone could make me cry for long, heartbreaking hours.
But even more, Riggins knows we’re married.
How?
When?
