A Small Voice

“One red, one blue, two yellow,” she recites to herself as the pills make a plonking sound against the plastic days-of-the-week pill caddy. “One pink, one white, and half of the green,” she finishes. After filling the seven days, she moved to another caddy, this one for vitamins. “Multi, magnesium, vitamin D, omega 3.” The sing-song rhyme of the names keeps her going. 

Looking at her hands, she thinks about what her life was like before the panic attacks, the tremors, and the depression weighing her down. Her heart and mind raced while her body refused to move. She takes a shiny red apple from the bowl in the centre of the table, takes a bite, and thinks about the last time she felt hungry. 

“Drink some water,” she reminds herself. She takes a large gulp from a glass, then dumps the rest on a plant that she didn’t remember buying. 

Dishes needing to be washed are piled next to the sink. She stares at them and sighs. Stands, ties her robe around her waist, and goes back to her bedroom. 

She climbs under the covers on her half of the bed. The other half has unfolded, but clean laundry. The floor surrounding the bed has dirty underwear and socks. 

Her muscles hurt. She tries to find a comfortable position for her neck but quickly gives up. She closes her eyes. 
“You are useless,” a voice in her mind tells her. It is determined and uses a tone that dares her to reason otherwise. 
“You can’t do anything,” it continues. 

She rolls over, pulling the covers up around her head and ears, covering her mouth. Her nose remains uncovered. 

“Worthless,” the voice continues. “Worthless, unloveable, terrible human being. Why do you even try?” 

Tears well in her eyes. The voice is probably right. She used to be lots of things. Bright, busy, ambitious, popular, productive. Now, she can’t even get dressed or brush her teeth. 

“You ate an apple and took your pills,” a smaller, kinder voice whispers so the mean voice can’t hear. “You drank some water. You’re doing a great job.” 

The small voice repeats the encouragement. “Your brain is lying to you. The mean voice is lying. There is no proof of what it is telling you.” The small voice grows a little louder. “But, there is proof that you want to get better and that you are trying. You are looking after yourself. Even if it’s just a little at a time.”

She thinks about what the small voice said. It’s right. She does want to get better. Taking her pills is one step. There may be thousands of steps more, but at least she started. 

Instead of hiding under the covers, she rises from her bed, and changes her clothes. Then, she goes outside to breathe some fresh air. She composes a text to her therapist. 

I got dressed. I ate an apple today. I’m outside with the sun on my face. 

Moments later her therapist texts back, “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of myself too,” she says to herself.