The next day, nothing changes and Jose finds me still in bed once again. “You gotta get out of bed,” he says gently.
I know he means well. Hell, I know I need to get the fuck out of this horizontal prison, but there's something — some part of me — that is broken.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the conversation that I've been doing my best to avoid. Something I'd been meaning to say out loud for years now, but just didn't know how.
“I think, maybe I need some kind of help.” I say through sobs.
“What kind of help?” He asks, confused.
“I dunno. Mentally?” I say, my voice cracking.
He looks at me skeptically. “It would help if you didn't spend your day in bed.”
His words land like a gut punch, confirming what I had thought.
He thinks this is somehow my fault? As If I want to be stuck in here.
Normally, this comment would fill me with rage but at this point I'm so filled with despair that there's no longer room for the rage. Plus, there's a part of me that really, really wants him to be able to understand. My words come out surprisingly soft and tired.
“I can't help it. It's hard to explain. It's like gravity. But really, really sad. With a splash of self-hatred and despair, coated in hopelessness.” I explain, doing my best to give him the sugar coated version. What I don't say, is that most of the time, I just want to die.
His expression flickers ever so slightly and I can tell he thinks I'm just being dramatic. He simply doesn't understand, but I understand that he doesn't understand. I'm annoyed by this. By all of it. By existence.
My phone dings next to me on my nightstand, interrupting our conversation. It's a text from Molly.
“Tell me you're not still in bed,” it reads.
Should I lie? I should lie.
With everything in me, I want to, but I'm afraid she knows me too well. It wouldn't be the first time that she's called me on my bullshit. I decide honesty is the best policy.
“I am,” I admit.
“I need your help with something,” she says, breezing right past my sad choice of existence.
“I'm listening,” I say. I know that she knows, that I've already mentally agreed to help her, whatever it is.
“I have a new marketing project for you. This time I'll pay you $30,” she begins. I hesitate before answering, but only because $30 would cover one hour of work and she's asking me for a potentially endless stream of tasks. I decide to do it for free.
“Please?” she begs me, before I can agree.
“Count me in,” I agree. “Except, you don't have to pay me. I'd do it for free.” And I mean it. “Anything else you need?”
“No, that's it. No, just do what you do and recruit members to the group. Once it's big enough, I can sell these water bottles with glitter in them that I'm importing. They're really pretty,” she says, still trying to convince me.
“I like glitter. That's a good enough reason for me,” I assure her.
Although I do like glitter, the truth is, I adore Molly and would do anything for her. I don't tell her this though. That would be weird.
Over the next several days, I begin marketing her group as requested, mostly from the comfort of my bed. Within a couple months, the group grows to 5000 members.
Little did I know, I was also building a little tiny crafty empire of my own.
