I wake freezing. I’ve kicked the covers off in the night, again. My eyes fail to adjust even in the pale gray light. Rubbing them helps slightly. The red numbers on my clock are fuzzy, barely legible - 6:45. It feels like something is resting on my chest, invisible, massive. My hands try to brush it away, but come to their senses soon after I do. I mutter to myself, “How many times is this going to happen?” Nobody answers. Rolling onto the floor I try push-ups, and sit-ups, no relief. I climb to my feet. Upright, I stretch my shoulders, touching my fingers to the ceiling. Nothing. I let my arms fall to my sides with a loud “slap!” Inhale, then I take three steps, turn, exhale, and take three more. Pacing, the pressure moves from my chest to my abdomen. Simultaneously I feel famished and gorged. I want breakfast, but I can’t stand the thought of food. Thoughts race through my head as I stumble towards the kitchen. - “Did I say something wrong?” “Did I fuck something up?” - I pour myself some water and drink the whole glass in one swallow. The water is cold, having been in the fridge all night, and I can feel the cold run down my throat and into my stomach. My pilomotor reflex kicks in, and all my hairs stand on end. This vestigial response to the temperature makes me smile as I make my way to the bathroom. Seeking ablution, I fumble with the knobs to start the water for my morning shower. My five digits prevail. I look down at my trembling hands and am reminded that I’m an ape, and that my cognitive mistakes are products of an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. I forgive myself. I wasn’t made for this world; I’m just trying to survive it. Inhale. Exhale. The pressure is gone and the water is nice and hot.
