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“Spoons,” I whisper as I force myself to finish categorizing Racheal’s emails.
I’m home by the time every part of my day except Willow’s mention of spoons has faded into oblivion. Curled up in bed, half asleep, I scroll through an article on Spoon Theory, completely entranced.
It makes so much sense to me, even though I have absolutely no idea why. This concept that people start the day with so many units of energy and run out feels like the way I’ve been living for my entire life. Except when I run out, I’ve looked at the people around me who haven’t and told myself to stop being lazy, get it together, keep pushing on.
I’m not disabled. I don’t have a chronic or autoimmune illness. I’m not dealing with any mental health issues beyond an average amount of anxiety.
Spoon Theory is not supposed to make this much sense in the context of my existence.
But that collapse, that I can’t take a shower tonight, that battle to just feed myself when the only thing I can manage thinking about is scrolling on my phone for hours or sleeping for days…
That hits a little close, especially tonight when I’ve not had lunch or dinner because I just couldn’t get my head around all the steps required in order to make food appear.
Forcing down a swallow, I see a paragraph mentioning how the term is used by those with fatigue-related illnesses and delete the tab. That’s just not me. I’m perfectly healthy. I literally just take on more than I should because I struggle to say no to people.
Nobody has limitless energy.
For all I know, Willow is handling things I can’t begin to comprehend.
Maybe I should ask her if there’s anything I can do to help. Should I make her a casserole? Is that weird? That’s probably weird. Besides, she has Zy with her. She doesn’t need me invading her space or trying to impose my care upon her when she barely knows me.
“We don’t make random casseroles for people, Brittny. That’s an after funeral thing.”
Sagging, I press a pillow into my face and tell myself to go to sleep, go to sleep, Go To Sleep. But my head’s a jungle gym, and the children aren’t done on the monkey bars. Someone is screaming. Someone is singing off-key. Someone across the street from the park is playing rap music while car tires squeal.
“I could really use a casserole,” I whisper to no one.
¤
The task of cutting three tiny holes in an old black sock requires my utmost attention. After fourteen hours of sleep—yes, I slept basically all of Saturday away after finally managing to conk out around four in the morning—I feel almost like a person again. And almost people dress up their little dogs.
“Oxford!” I call as I finish my masterpiece.
From his little bed on the other side of the living room, Oxford lifts his head, looks at what I’m holding, and snuffs.
“Come here, baby.”
He stands, trotting over to me. Judgment thick in his eyes, he sits.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know your outfits are usually far more extravagant, but this’ll be cute.”
He doesn’t budge as I slip the sock over his head, adjust the eye holes and the nose and mouth hole, and then… Voila.
“Mommy’s little criminal!” Grinning like a fool, I cuddle him in his makeshift ski mask. He flops his head against my chest and releases a puppy sigh. “You’re quite morose today, Oxy. Don’t worry. This might be the gateway drug into making you couture with all the outfit supplies I keep collecting.” I have an entire drawer filled with ruffles and fabrics and ideas of outfits I want to one day make for my child. When I am no longer so tired all the time. Or something.
The same idea applies to learning how to cook gourmet.
And writing a respectable book from start to finish.
Many tasks are on that when I have time wait list. So I’ll probably get around to them when I retire.
And…by then…
My heart sinks, and I hold Oxford a little tighter.
He yips, dragging my thoughts away from chihuahua lifespans.
I take a breath and focus on him, focus on now. “Sorry, Oxy. It’s dinner time for you, isn’t it?”
