Hear me read it
She sat on the edge of her bed staring at the floor. Within her scope of vision there were many things she could look at. Many things to think about and process. There was a slate blouse that had wilted at the bottom of her bed, or her pale foot placed beside it. The foot looked unnatural there, with no pressure to grip it to the ground it looked unbelonging, like a cast aside prop. Yet she did not look, or think, or notice.
She just stared, blindly, for an hour, her thoughts were obnoxious and churned the paltry paste of self-disgust in her heart muscle, but they were relatively quiet as she repeated over and over in the forefront of her subconscious "Time to get up."
Time to get up. It was time to get up. It was time to get up and get on with her life. It was time to get a life. It was time. It was time to get up.
Unprovoked tears swelled and scattered loosely amid this trail of thought. She kept going, over and over, It Is Time To Get Up. Get out of bed.
Even breaking the day down into the atomic bones of it, she could not get up. She could not do the simple task of standing up. She allowed herself to temporarily forget that after she stood up she would then have to get dressed, and eat something, or shower, or brush her hair. She allowed the moment she was trying to achieve to exist singularly. It is time to Get Up.
Still she could not. The sense of failure and self loathing grew. STAND UP! All it is is standing, you have done it a million times; stand UP. Her heartbeat slowed until it was a dull echo of the mantra, stand up.
You are being ridiculous. Stand up. Get up. It's time to get up. Get up. Stand up. Do something. Put a sock on. One sock. It's right in front of you. Just pick it up. You wouldn't even have to stand up to reach it. Lean forward and pick up the sock. Just pick it up and worry about putting it on the foot later. Just lean forward.
A burst of desperation exploded in her chest and she snatched at the sock and then, incited by the sudden movement, began to sob again. Crying harder until she began to cough and retch with the misery clogging her throat. She could see the tissues on her desk, a meter away, but instead put her head down and coughed into the sock. Spiraling into despair, the bleak and hopeless place where she knew she belonged.
She coughed, as if her lungs were tripping over her tears. Each cough a bark of anguish that she was trying not to put into words. She tried to swallow the coughs, the tears and the words, and cried harder still until she drew the sock away and saw blood. She had spiraled in mood to the point of hysteria. The blood shocked her, a spiteful blow to the face. She withdrew to broken whimpers of her pain and slowly withdrew her legs until her feet were on the edge of the mattress, and then let herself lay back down, weakly pulling the quilt over her head. She shivered her way to sleep.