My fingers are filthy. Blackened at the tips with grime underneath my fingernails. I should wash my hands, but I have more to do. I look up at the fluorescent glowing numbers on my dusty cable box. The figures are blurry at first, forming an indecipherable shape. I squeeze my eyes shut and reopen them. I imagine my corneas, dry and neglected, dust forming pockets of blindness in the corners of my lids.

Fuck.

It is 3:42 AM. I want to stop looking, but I can’t. I know that goddamn necklace is somewhere, and I’ll never sleep if I can’t find it. I pick up my phone again, aware that my disgusting fingers will leave smudges on my already marred screen. As if leaning into the notion of ruin, I rub a particularly filthy middle finger across a small crack in the upper right-hand corner. I’m not sure if it’s the screen that’s cracked or the plastic layer I crookedly affixed on top of the actual screen. I’m not sure it matters. 

I open my photos and scroll through, purposefully and frantic. Maybe if I see myself wearing the necklace, I can transport myself back to that day, and then, I’ll remember what I did. I’ll recall the sequence of events that will fix everything. I will see that I went to the sauna and, dropped the necklace in the side pocket of my library tote (already checked), or maybe I took it with me when I went to the Berkshires a few weekends ago and it’s floating at the bottom of my weekender (checked that too). 

I seem to have worn every other necklace I own except for the one I’m looking for. I throw my phone down in frustration and it bounces off the yoga mat I’m sitting on and onto the sliver of wood floor beside me. 

Fuck. 

It’s late, and that felt loud. Too loud. Is it late? Perhaps it’s actually early? Does it matter when you haven’t slept? Does that change the description? I resist the urge to reach for my phone and Google. I’m starting to unravel. I can feel it. The bottoms of my feet are itchy, and anxiety gnaws in all the spaces I can feel but can’t identify. I want to punch a wall or go for a run or scream.

I push aside the beaded necklaces, dangling earrings that are missing their partners and oversized cocktail rings and lay down on the mat, head resting on the musty bike shorts I took off a few hours ago. I feel the head of a stud poking into the space between my back upper ribs and I imagine myself as Scrooge McDuck, swimming through his gold coins and jewels. As the sharp metal and hard surfaces press into my delicate skin, I wonder if the cartoonist ever considered his discomfort. 

The ball pit at Mercer Labs floats into my overtired brain and then, more filth. Bodies sharing spaces they aren’t meant to share. DNA particles dusted on colorful plastic surfaces. And then, the Citi Bikes. The wayward souls who have no fear of tainted handlebars and cushioned seats that have seen the sweaty privates of thousands. I wonder what it’s like to not think about such things. I saw a woman hop on a Citi Bike on my way to see The Great Gatsby last week. She had that enviable hair that’s not quite straight and not quite curly. A perfect wave. Nothing manipulated by a tool. Her hair was reddish. Not auburn, but purely reddish. She wore a white T-shirt that clung to her average figure and a blue, polyester-looking skirt and Birks. She swung her oatmeal-colored tote over her right shoulder and mounted that bike with such ease that it was clear she didn’t obsess over germs. The unsanitary nature of such an arrangement.

I remember wondering out loud why no one wears helmets in the city and how she felt confident navigating that bike with a skirt on. 

I’m not a germaphobe, at all. I mean, that much is clear, as I lay in a body-shaped space cleared amongst the clutter and insanity. Maybe that has nothing to do with it, at all. I’m conflating busy spaces and dirty spaces. 

My eyelids flutter closed, and I press my right pointer finger into the space between my eyebrows. 

Pain. So. Much. Pain.

I want to keep my eyes closed, but I can’t. I’m sure they won’t stay closed anyway. I won’t be able to sleep until I find the necklace. What if I wake up and it’s still missing? What then? How will the rest of the day unfold? I will have to spend hours looking. Seeking. Searching. 

I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, focusing on a bean shaped shadow created by the singular light in the corner of my bedroom. My living room. My one room.

I’ve lived in studio apartments for as long as I can remember. I moved out of my childhood home when I went to college, and I lived in a dorm room with roommates for precisely one year. It’s only been studios since. Well, that’s not true, I also had roommates in London. 

Here I have one main room, one bathroom and of course, a kitchen. I suppose that’s not an of course moment, —not everyone has a kitchen space.

I’ve never needed more space, not really. I’ve always been content with small spaces. Maybe it’s easier to control, maybe I don’t need space for the sake of      space, or maybe I just don’t want to change this one thing that’s always been the same. 

I sit up quickly, feeling queasy from the effort and stride to the table beside my bed. I pick up the oblong shaped ceramic dish Neva made me and empty its contents onto my coverlet. A broken heavy gold chain, a pin that features the silhouette of a woman from another      time, four mismatched safety pins and a pair of plastic elephant earrings. 

Fuck.

I imagined myself forgetting to take it off before bed one night, and sitting up suddenly, with the realization that I had to take it off, but didn’t want to move far. I pictured myself slipping it over my head and coiling the long silver chain in this dish, atop the pile of randomness. I didn’t. That never happened. It was an ill-conceived fantasy. 

I have a deep desire to lay down in bed, but I can’t. I have not found the necklace and besides, I need to wash up first. 

I lay down in the spot I’ve made on the mat in the middle of the room. A misguided snow angel amongst teeny piles of junk and finery. 

I’m usually so organized, but something is happening. I’m exhausted from the last few weeks, and I can’t seem to pull it together. I keep telling myself I am going to sort things out. Micro pep talks. 

You got it.

Just need a quick reset.

It’s over.

It’s over.

It’s over.

Is it over? What is over, exactly? The work trauma? All the other events that occurred on and around the work bits that seemed bigger and more consequential in those moments? Even now I’m not certain I could parse out the important from the worthless. I’m not sure I have a solid sense of what means something in the greater scheme of my life.

According to memes on the internet, this is because I’m due for a reckoning. It was high time everything fell apart so I could reassess. What they don’t tell you in those voiceover narrated videos is that none of it makes sense. Even when your brain and heart and psyche tell you that the thing itself is done, you are filled to the brim with PTSD and grief and rage, and so, nothing makes sense.

You will not be able to make sense of why people are manipulative and users. You will not understand why there is unequitable pay and treatment except to contextualize it with all the other ways in which your sex is currently being maligned. You will not swear to be more mindful going forward, because you don’t know what that even means. You still don’t understand who is safe. It’s bigger than that though. You still don’t understand who is dangerous, and that’s the most important part of all of this. 

No one tells you these things. People are trying to be positive and be supportive and explain everything in a way where it’s manageable and digestible, except that’s not how it works. Well, it seems to work for some, but I’m not even sure about that either. The world of social media is a tricky one and really, so is the real world, and so, it’s hard to decipher what it means to be honest. Do people share when they fail at these exercises?

I do. Sometimes. I used to share more. I used to make myself vulnerable and then, when I got hurt, I tried to stop. Except that most of the time there’s a sort of amnesia when it comes to being human. There’s this way we exist in the world where we block out the traumatic bits that are meant to keep us from doing something again. 

I suppose some don’t, and obviously, therapy helps, but most of us are endlessly starring in some version of Groundhog Day, waiting for someone else to break the cycle. Someone else will fix the problem and we will be the gracious beneficiary of their efforts, and this will feel like the best thing we could never do for ourselves but always needed.

I think about this a lot lately. I think about posts and lectures and videos that tell me I am going to save myself. Can I save myself?

I don’t know

My brain is so filled with things, I’m not sure how to compartmentalize in the way one needs to in order to be functional. 

I say I’m tired a lot, but that’s just code for: I’m tired, but it’s a combination of lack of sleep and overanalyzing everything. I spend most of the day wondering why I can’t get promoted at work and I can’t find someone normal to fuck regularly. I spend more time than I care to admit wondering when the cellulite ripple of the upper part of my thighs started to bother me enough that I decided to become someone who doesn’t really wear shorts. I think about the soft, whitish fuzz that dots my lower belly and knuckles because of the shit I take to keep my hairline where it is. I think about books I haven’t finished because of my attention span and my ever-expanding list of ‘shows to watch’ in my Notes app on my phone and the ‘To Do’ lists I’ve scrawled on too many surfaces to be useful. 

I am tired because I worry about the election and the poor choices my friends make and how sensitive my nephew is in a world that seems to celebrate toxic masculinity, despite lip service to the contrary. I worry that I haven’t perfectly planned my fruit consumption and one of my farm bag peaches will go to waste, despite my every effort to the contrary.

I worry about Project 2025 and the arthritis behind my left knee and the life span of the veneers I got over a decade ago. 

I’m exhausted thinking about how we all seem to focus on the minutia rather than the important shit and this is somehow supporting the reversal of women’s rights and book banning and anti- everything sentiments. 

I worry about giving myself an ulcer or a headache or wrinkles.

I think about all the places I want to visit and how there is seemingly so much time and no time at all. 

I worry about the way the new tattoo on my foot is healing and the coffee I forgot to put in the fridge after I brewed it two days ago.

I speak in code because that feels easier. Simpler. No one really cares, not really. I barely care. I only care enough to think about all the things I should do something about, while deciding not to do anything at all. My closest friend Rick always says nothing changes if nothing changes and this feels intelligent and intuitive and also, like unbearable pressure. Pressure to assess and rethink and change. Change in a way that may or may not suit me but makes everyone around me feel better. They will feel calmer because I have made changes where they can worry less. This feels like a burden I don’t want to carry and yet, it’s on the list. 

I feel around on the floor next to me, fingers running over warm wood and cool glass beads and soft, silken tassels. My hand wraps around my phone when I find it and brings to screen to my eye line.

I open my text messages, scrolling through. I’ll tell you a secret. Another one. I keep text messages that pain me. Sometimes I even pin them, so they are at the top. It’s my form of self-mutilation. I remind myself of my missteps, my mistakes. I absorb my rejections and deletions and trauma. Sometimes I open them with an irrational desire to write on the chain, weeks or months later. Out of the blue. 

Fuck you, I would write. That’s it. Nothing more. For once, I would use less words, and not more. The sparest of text. I would just write that and leave it. Forever. I would never write again, not if they wrote to me, not if some other life event made that make sense. Not then, not ever.

Just the thought feels gratifying. I feel empowered and comfortable in those moments. I feel like the furthest thing from a victim and that feels like the best place to be.

I don’t write though. I tell myself that would be an exercise in futility, that I would likely cause myself further embarrassment or pain. My impulsivity would be rewarded with more heartache, and this seems an undesirable consequence. 

I need to find the necklace. Somehow if I find the necklace, I feel like that will fix everything. Fuck you will not fix anything, good as it may feel. But grasping the necklace in my hand, feeling the uneven surface of its gemstones and tarnish, will close this gaping wound in the way I need it to. I’m sure of it. 

I felt so proud of myself when I told Tom I wouldn’t take on more work without a salary adjustment, and still, the conversation reverberates. Still, I can’t seem to forget his unforgiving expression, his blatant disappointment. I can’t seem to escape the notion that in an attempt to free myself, to defend myself, I had failed. Failed to prove myself worthy, again.

You have to understand, I said, I’ve never received anything promised to me, so I can’t take the chance. Plus, it isn’t fair.

I know I sounded needy and pleading and desperate.

Yeah, he responded, I hear you, but I just thought that maybe it would be different because it’s me.

Because it’s you? Who? Another human who asks too much and gives too little?

I reach up with my other hand and pick at the cuticles dotting the base of my right thumb. I imagine my phone falling onto my face, and so, I release it to the floor, and commence picking, again. I don’t stop until that skin is incredibly tender and dotted with blood. I bring the spot to my lips and dart my tongue out, tasting earth and rust. 

My chest is beginning to tighten in that way that immediately precedes tears, but I don’t think I have any left to shed. I think I’ve cried everything out of me. What moisture wasn’t used to mourn the loss of my dignity and self-respect has been fully expended in some effort to keep this vessel awake for, I don’t know, fourteen hours or so. Maybe more. 

I’m losing track and I feel confident I can’t read the clock any longer. I’m not sure that means anything at this point.

I wonder if I should make something to eat soon. I can’t remember when I last ate, but it feels like ages ago. It might make me feel better to eat something. I could make something simple. Maybe a scrambled egg or some oatmeal. Perhaps a few slices of apple with peanut butter or a handful of mixed nuts. 

I won’t eat now. It’s too late. Or too early. Or some time that doesn’t work for digestion. Plus, if I want to sleep at some point, it won’t work if I eat now. I don’t think so, anyway. I don’t want to take the chance.

I flex my feet and feel the ever-present but mostly underwhelming tightness in my lower back and hamstrings. I feel like I’ve looked everywhere, but maybe I should start over. Or perhaps I should put everything away and in that quiet order, I will find inspiration. Perhaps the process of cleaning will bring me to the spot. The place where I decided to keep the necklace. Hide the necklace. Protect the necklace. 

The necklace has taken on a life of its own. It has become a symbol of my abilities and my sanity. I feel certain that without that necklace, I will be unmoving. Frozen with discontent and fear. If I could lose that necklace, I can lose anything. At any point. For no reason. 

I sit up and start scooping piles into itsy cardboard boxes and plastic containers and wooden jewelry stand drawers. I run my hands along the piles, as if reading braille, and seeking a hint, a sign, a clue. 

The weight of exhaustion is pressing into my limbs now, and I feel slow and unproductive.

I will put everything away, wash up and get a few hours of sleep. I will start again in the morning. There is nothing left to be done now. Work will still not appreciate me, and the newest breed of Republican will still be trying to hurt everyone who is not a white Christian, and the summer air will still be heavy with humidity and the promise of rain. I will still be suffering with my bad decisions and my imposter syndrome and my paralyzing fear of hereditary dementia. 

I make the water hotter than it needs to be in the shower and I watch as the skin on my breasts and abdomen turns splotchy and pink. I rub mildly scented shampoo into my scalp and allow the scalding water to run over my eyelids and chin and toes. I think how I need to give myself a pedicure and donate clothing to charity and pick up coffee creamer. I remember my dry cleaning that’s been with Alfredo for more than two weeks and my absence at the soup kitchen and all the things I meant to add to my lists and never did. When I remember in these moments, I am certain I will never forget, and I always do. This is my place of remembrance and also, the tomb of silence where those thoughts remain. 

Stepping out of the shower onto my tightly woven bathmat my shin scrapes along the shower door rail and the agony feels longer lived than usual. I rub my hand along the damp skin, imagining a reiki-like healing with my garbage energy. 

I clear a space in the fogged bathroom mirror with the heel of my left hand and stare at my forlorn expression. There are dark circles under my eyes and my hair, though clean, looks knotted and in need of a salon appointment. There is a smattering of stress acne on my chin and there are      cocoa-colored sunspots along my cheekbones, as I have neglected to use sunscreen during my recent morning runs. I endeavor to offer myself a half smile, but this effort forms a lump in my throat. My vision blurs and I wonder where on earth my body found wetness. Choking on a giggle, I imagine my body absorbing shower water, like a hole-filled monstera, carrying it up to my tear ducts in a way that defies science and medicine and reality.

I tuck the corner of my towel into the part wrapped tight against my body and wrap my still soaked hair into a messy bun at the nape of my neck. There exists within me an irrational desire to drink from the bathroom faucet as I so often did as a child. I feel thirsty in a way that’s unquenchable and also, I deeply crave uninterrupted slumber. No one tells you that in your 40s, you can’t drink water after 9 PM or so, lest risking midnight trips to the bathroom. 

Swiping some lip balm on my perpetually chapped lips, I turn the light off, feeling my way to the mostly functional chair pushed up against the table in my kitchen. I don’t need to see, don’t need light. I have my space nearly memorized. How many steps to the table, the bed, the fridge, the window? 

I sit in front of my laptop and peel it open, squinting as the bright light of the screen illuminates the space. I open my email but as the page is loading, something occurs to me. An idea. A thought. A memory. I reach into the elephant cup in the middle of the table and feel around until a mesh bag is clasped between my fingers. I pull it out and dump its contents out on the keyboard in front of me. Tears dot my forearms and spill onto my cheeks, making their way to my bare chest. I wrap my hands around the cool silver and then run my right fingers down the long chain.

I sit back in the chair, softly closing the laptop, riveted by the quiet and the blackness and my success.

Fuck.

---

Leah Fisher was born and raised in New York. When not working her day job in real estate finance, you can find her drinking copious amounts of coffee, reading, writing, teaching yoga, and engaging in relentless social activism. She has been published in The Taoist blog, The Inclusion Solution blog, Call Me [Brackets], Dear Diary Zine Collective, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes.