You wake up.
You're already tired.
It's not a groggy, hazy tired - you can feel this in your bones.
In your marrow.
You convince yourself to rise, to hump through the motions of the early morning grind.
You leave for work.
You're ten miles gone before you realize you haven't eaten, haven't drank a thing.
You convince yourself you have the time to stop at the coffee shop.
When you enter you already feel the familiar anxiety.
People are staring, talking, watching, waiting, listening, chewing, sipping, typing.
You order.
This is all too much.
You receive a drink and a smile.
You turn a corner to privately make it Irish.
Before you pour, flask in hand, you catch a glimpse of faces in a window's reflection.
The sense of shame and self-loathing wash over you.
In this, your darkest moment, you find that time has stopped.
All motion halted.
You cannot move.
They cannot move.
Your eyes can hardly focus between the flask and reflection of yourself.
You live your despair for hours.
You are weak.
