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good. The life I worked so hard to create is crashing down around me and I'm just sitting here, putting on a show that would make proud the Buddha himself!
    "You should have gone, bitch!" I yell to the fool-a person who will never hear and likely wouldn't care about the depths of my displeasure-but it feels forced: unauthentic. There is no rage inside me right now, no anger.
    It is in this moment a saving grace falls to me from the skies, or more precisely, rings up from my watch: the cue that tells me it's time to begin workout number one. And look at me: no breakfast, no rest, not even fucking home yet... I'm extremely and unforgivably late! The familiar gurgle of bitterness begins its slow pulse through me. I don't try to combat it. I welcome it with open arms. It is now that my brain gets down to business, scheming away at how I am going to pull off the rest of this day.
    It won't be easy, it won't be fun, but so help me, I will find a way.
    I'm cooked through with bitter spice by the time I get home. Once I realized how far behind schedule I was, it was easy to put an iron hand to myself. I'm going to have less time between workouts now, which could very well mean that my second one is going to suffer. I gave myself a little leeway and this is what I get! My day is pretty much ruined: as it should be.
    I pull myself together enough to get through breakfast in a proper fashion. The only thing noticeable about it is that the lack of flavor never tasted worse. After eating, I move to my room to zone out and am all but blasted back out the door by the invasive morning light. I'd forgotten how late it is. The dark sanctuary I normally zone out in has already been lost.
    Terrific.
    I retreat to the couch like some ridiculous creature who has no place. I try to just lie down and keep things normal but I can't. It's too bright for me to sink below my thoughts. Try as I might, I can't ignore them out here. I sit up, reach for the remote, and stop. It's lay and relax time, not TV time. Whether I am able to ignore my thoughts or not, I must simply lay-a feeble attempt to cling to what I know.
    I barely make a half hour before I am absolutely, downright sick of this shit. With nothing better to do, I decide to just start my workout early. My heart shrinks from the thought but I see no other alternative. The small plus side is that at least this puts me a little bit closer to being on track.
    Today's first workout is shoulders, which, thank god, happens to be another one of my favorites. I go through the motions of warming up, watching curiously as some dark emotion grows within me. I hurry and get warm, then move to the weight rack. As I reach down to pick up the weights, the emotion transforms into a realization so appalling I can hardly bring myself to look it in the face. But it is standing before me, hands stretched out, clutching me by the throat and demanding my attention.
    I don't want this. I'm tired of it. I don't want to work out.
    I want to be done.
    I want to be dead.
    The truth hits with such tremendous, mind shattering force that all the pieces that once constituted my self scatter, leaving me with nothing but a searing pain and the absolute certainty that killing myself is something that must be done. I grasp onto the pain, though it burns me, and stare my certainty in the eye. It causes my heart to shudder and my knees to quake, and then, as easily as letting a rock sink beneath the water, I start to cry.
    Fuck! This hurts.
    Jesus, this fucking hurts. It's one thing to fantasize about killing yourself on a bad day under the influence of a particularly sharp emotion. It's quite another thing to know, fully and absolutely, that you want death more than anything else in the world; not because of some great tragedy or unendurable physical torment, but simply because life has lost its promise of joy, and just the thought of living another day is enough to make the gut wrench in anguish.
    God damnit. For too long I’ve