Every Day, It Gets a Little Easier

Link to article: Every Day, It Gets a Little Easier.
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|text=You can never remember what he says to you, but you always wake up crying.
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**Every Day, It Gets Easier**
**Author:** [[*user AUTHOR]]
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CW: Suicidal thoughts, manipulation, gaslighting, abuse of power.
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+++++ 5 Days since It Happened 

You’re thinking about dying. You’ve been thinking about dying a lot, recently. You lie on the couch, cushions moulded to your body, as you contemplate the ceiling dispassionately. When you tire of watching the fan blades spin in slow, lazy circles, you think about dying some more.  

When your phone rings, you almost don’t pick up. There’s no one you want to talk to right now. But some old habits die hard, as the saying goes, and you slide your thumb across the icon to answer. 

You don’t speak, just wait expectantly. Just because you picked up doesn’t mean you plan on dignifying the caller with a response. 

“... How’re you doing, buddy?” The voice crackles from your phone, dripping with pity and laden with a smile so forced you swear you can hear it creaking at the edges.

“We’re all worried about you! It’s been five days already, and we still haven’t heard anything from you.” There’s an edge of apprehension to the voice now, under the strained amicability.

“The Director’s been asking about when you’re coming back.” 

You sit up so quickly it's like you’ve been punched in the stomach, bile rising in the back of your throat. Words, equally acidic, rip from you in a snarl. 

“I’m not coming back. //Ever.//” 

It’s now his turn to drag out the silence. 

“... You know, we miss him too. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but-”

You hang up. You contemplate throwing the phone against the wall, imagining how good it would feel to watch the screen rupture in a shower of sparkling glass, and see the electric guts spill across the carpet.

You go back to thinking about dying instead. 
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+++++ 14 Days since It Happened 

You can’t go into your bedroom, not right now. Maybe never again, for the rest of your life. There’s too much of him in there. Part of you fears the contrary, that you’ll go inside, and it’ll be just a room, that he’s actually gone and —

It’s just better to sleep on the couch. 

Sleep isn’t the reprieve you hoped for, though, your dreams are far too colourful. It’s much easier in the grey of dozing, not really awake, drifting somewhere just out of reach. 

It’s from this grey that you're ripped back to full wakefulness, the sound of three crisp knocks at the front door an ice pick to your forehead. You fly to your feet, incandescent with rage. How dare they come here, how dare they disturb you, //how dare they//. You cross the room in a blur, wrenching the door open with as much vitriol as you can.

The Site Director smiles at you sadly.

“May I come in?”   

You’re so stunned that you simply step aside and let him enter, following him to the couch. He has the grace to not look disgusted by the state of the room, at the very least. You pull up a chair, sitting down numbly. 

“How are you?”

You laugh. You don’t expect it, can’t help it. It’s a choked little rasp that's quickly stifled by the heaviness of the surrounding air.

“What do you think.” You want the words to be biting, but they drop from your mouth like stones. 

The Director inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement. “A silly question, considering the circumstances.”

You gather what little energy you have to launch your accusation. “If this is about getting me to finish the project-”

“It’s not.”

His reply disarms you, your vehement denials of returning shrivelling and dying on your lips. You snap your mouth closed, trying and failing to hide your surprise.

“Then why are you here?” Is what you finally land on in response. It feels trite, predictable, but what else are you supposed to say?

“Because I’m worried about you. We all are. What happened was an unimaginable tragedy-”

Here comes your rage again. You lean forwards in your chair, fixing him with a glare that you hope isn’t undermined by how puffy and red your eyes are.

“//Tragedy.// Everyone keeps fucking saying that. How terrible it was. How tragic it all is. It never should have happened, and all anyone can say is how sad the whole fucking mess is. They should be sorry, but no one's ever //sorry//, no one ever admits they fucked up, that they should've done better.” 

The Director looks solemn, but he doesn’t look anywhere near as ashamed as you want him to be. As you need him to be. 

“For what it’s worth, I am, truly, sorry. I know that saying that doesn’t change anything, but it’s the truth. You deserve an apology. Hearing that mistakes happen isn’t an excuse when mistakes cost lives.”

Studying his face, you notice how haggard he is. How deep and shadowed the bags under his eyes are.

“You don’t have to come back, I’m not going to try and change your mind. The reason I came here was to give you this.”

He holds out a business card, its creamy white card stock almost glowing in the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains. When you don’t take it, he continues. 

“I know you probably haven’t been checking your emails, so I wanted to come by in person. It’s a counselling service. It’s provided by the Foundation, so you can talk about… everything. No need to worry about the Veil.” 

He sighs, and it’s hard to read. 

“I shouldn’t tell you this, because of patient confidentiality, but… your, uh, partner used to see them. Always said he found it helpful. There was even a time he came close to leaving, but they were able to, ah, help him through that.”

You feel like the air in your lungs has turned to ash, thick and cloying as you take the card, unable to respond. When the Director rises from his chair with another polite remark you don’t hear, you can’t feel your legs as you walk him to the door. You can’t remember what you say in response, if anything. Your head is full of a sheeting blankness, like a snowstorm crackling through your skull.

It’s too much to think about. Too much to feel about. 

You take a sleeping pill and bury your head under the cushions until you are mercifully taken away from that electric white, past the grey, and down into the black. 
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+++++ 20 Days since It Happened

You scrub at a particularly stubborn splotch of sauce, grimacing. In the lounge room, the TV is tuned to some harmless game show, the musical stings and chatter of the audience a welcome harmony to the rasp of the sponge.

//##808080 |“Now, for one hundred dollars… what is the world's biggest fish?”##// 

You tune the host back out as you clean, and think about the bull shark you saw once, a long time ago. You had stood with your nose pressed to the cold glass of the aquarium tank, and watched the way it cut through the water like a knife. 

It had circled the tank as persistently as the hand on a clock, its vacant black eyes and gaping mouth frozen in a blank, stupefied mask. As a child, the corkscrew motion of the beast filled you with awe, wondering what secret fishy urge drove it so resolutely onwards.

Now, you just think that shark was a fucking idiot. 

You throw the sponge in the sink, eyes sweeping the counter top. You try not to see the little white rectangle that’s been sitting there since the Director’s visit. You should just throw it away. It really shouldn’t be this hard to do. It wouldn’t be this hard if you didn’t think about him every time you saw it. 

//Why didn't he ever tell me about it?//

The thought is a splinter in the soft flesh of your psyche. He always seemed so positive, so capable. You thought you knew him better than anyone. 

You only realise you’ve been chewing your lip when you taste blood. One session. 

You’ll do it for him, and then maybe you can finally stop swimming.      
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+++++ 24 Days since It Happened 

The counsellor has very white teeth, and a very polite smile. Your eyes slip over his pleasantly average face to the window, where a fly batters itself against the pane.

“... it gets easier. Every day gets a little easier.”

“Hmm?” You drag your gaze back to his. The fluorescent lights are too loud. You can’t keep your mind in one place. 

“But the first step is getting help.” He continues, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m very glad you decided to meet with me- It’s very brave of you.” 

“Mmm-hmm.” It’s too warm in here. The fly’s buzzing melds with the light's harsh hum, the white noise intrusive. You pick up the glass of water from the table, and take a sip to avoid having to say anything else. 

It’s cold, at least, even if the aftertaste sits heavy on the back of your tongue.

“May I ask - what prompted you to meet with me? Make no mistake, I’m glad that you did! I’d just like to know what you would like to get out of these sessions.” The smile never wavers. 

You try not to meet his sickeningly understanding gaze, focusing on the condensation beading on your glass, clammy and cold. //He would want me to get help. One last try. So I won’t feel as guilty.// You take another sip. Your throat contracts painfully, willing down the lump as you swallow. 

“It’s… healthy. The right thing to do.” You smile. Your teeth are not as white, and your smile not as polite. 

You decide you won’t be coming back.    
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//##262626 |You don’t remember how you got home, or how long you’ve been lying on your couch. A voice full of too-white teeth is reciting phrases that make you go fuzzy at the edges as flashcards of writhing colours and shapes fill your vision. You want to run, or scream, or tear yourself apart, but your limbs are wet paper and your tongue is numb and too big for your mouth. The smell of latex cups your face and rolls down your collar, and as you feel the needle sting your neck, you wish it hurt more.##//

//##666666 |Faceless men are vivisecting your house. You know what this means, and if you could still feel your face, you would cry. When you see one take the plain black urn from the mantelpiece, you hope for a catastrophic reaction to the drugs crawling through you. You want to die in one piece.##//

//##8f8f8f |The colours are inside you now, slithering through the optic nerves to nibble away at your mind. They’re telling you this is what’s best for you.##//

//##b3b3b3 |When you fade, you hope you’ll never wake back up.##//       
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+++++ Day 25

Your eyelids peel open like a shoe from a bar floor. Your mouth tastes like a bar floor, too. 

You sit up gingerly from your imprint in the couch, noting the empty bottles on the coffee table. Another night wallowing. You shamble to the kitchen, slapping at the coffee machine as you pass. You feel like a dishrag - wrung out and filthy. 

As you wait for your coffee to brew, you sift through your hazy mind. The image of buzzing lights and tasteful throw pillows drifts to the forefront, and you frown.

//“It’s perfectly understandable- a Foundation job is a lot of pressure. You aren’t less of a person for it- it just makes you human.”// 

What was the counsellor talking about again? 

Another memory, dredged from the muck of your thoughts. 

//Tearing up documents. Storming out. Gesticulations at your coworkers as they watched with silent mortification.// 

The sound of trickling liquid snaps you back to the present, and you pick up your coffee. No wonder you had been drinking again. Touching that memory was like a hot stove. What had the counsellor called it? A panic attack? 

//“They don’t always have a clearly identifiable trigger. Sometimes, it all gets a bit ‘too much’.”//  

The stupid project. Over twenty years of foundation experience, thrown away over a bad day and some deadline induced stress. No wonder you had been lurking in this squalid, gloomy den. You couldn’t stand to look at yourself. The last thing you wanted was your former colleagues looking at you with those, those, expressions. 

//Why did they look so pitying?//  

Your jaw clenches.

//“The best way to reset this rut you find yourself in, is some exposure therapy. I’m sure the Foundation would be happy to have you back, even in a limited capacity. Take things slow.”// 

You seriously doubt they would want you back. You don’t even know if //you// want to go back. But what's the alternative? Another day rotting away in here? You can’t stand this feeling, like your stomach has been pumped full of cold, gritty sludge. Anything has to be better than this. You drink your coffee slowly, and you think. 

You compose, after much writing and re-writing, a suitably ashamed email to the Site Director.

You compose another to book more sessions with your counsellor. 
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+++++ Day 35

Thankfully, the Foundation lets you work from home. You can’t stomach the thought of returning to the office, of feeling people’s eyes on you. You channel the roiling heat in your stomach into white-hot focus, chewing through the day's work with grim determination.

When you finish, you hesitate before closing your laptop. The trance of mundanity broken, you feel the agitation beginning to creep back in. You linger a few moments more before retreating to your bedroom. You really need to sleep. 

Unfortunately, in what appears to be the new routine, a headache is brewing as you lie in bed. Rolling over, you stare at the wall as pulsing pain lances sharp and bright behind your eyes. 

You roll over again. 

You close your eyes, trying to force your mind to relax. You can’t sleep. The bed is too cold. The bed is too big. The air is too still. You’re gasping for breath, skin prickling with the feet of millions of invisible ants.

You lurch upright, grabbing the blanket as you stumble downstairs to the living room, panting. By some coincidence, your headache starts to fade as you lie down on the couch, and soon you manage to find an uneasy sleep.

You start avoiding the bedroom. It’s just easier that way. 
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+++++ Day 45 

The counsellor's smile is just as white, but more genuine. He clicks his pen open softly, and nods encouragingly. 

You’ve been having these dreams, you explain. 

In them, a man without a face sits at your coffee table while you make breakfast, talking in a voice like light bulbs and flies. You can never remember what he says to you, but you always wake up crying. 

He nods sympathetically, explaining that this is normal. That stress does funny things to our brains. That you should establish a bedtime routine free of distractions, and try some breathing techniques during the day.

“Every day, it gets a little easier”. His pen scratches against his notebook as he gives you that sympathetic smile.

You nod, to be polite. 

He writes you a prescription for some pills to take before bed, and when you take them, you don’t dream at all. 

You take them every night. 
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+++++ Day 60

Your house is bothering you. 

It’s not déjà vu, but it's the only term you can think of. It’s like you //haven't// been here before, like someone  built a perfect replica of your house and replaced the original while you were sleeping. You sound crazy, even to yourself. But still, it bothers you.

You pace around your living room, chewing the inside of your lip. It just feels... off. The issue, you decide, is you have too much stuff. Too many cups, too many plates. Too many clothes that don’t fit right and make the back of your neck break out in goosebumps. Too many picture frames. Who has these many photos of themselves? //You narcissist.// 

You feel like you're suffocating. You rip a garbage bag off the roll, start stuffing things into it, and don’t stop until three of them are bulging at the seams and knotted securely shut. You’ll throw them away tomorrow. 

It looks… better, you think. But you think you should feel lighter somehow. You just feel tired. 

You’re fine; it’s just been a long day, and this impromptu spring-clean has sapped the last of your energy. At the very least, your brewing migraine has dissipated. That's a small win.

It makes your day a little easier. 
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+++++ Day 75

Déjà vu wasn’t the right word. It feels like living in a haunted house, but one defined by an absence rather than a presence. Every corner you turn, you feel like you’re holding your breath, knowing you’ll step into a room and finally see… something. The spectre in your house seems to always be out of reach, slipping away moments before you catch a glimpse of it.  

You drift through each day, feeling a lingering sense that you’re taking up space that isn't yours, as you cook your meals and type away at endless pages of reports and studies. You stopped feeling substantial a while ago. 

Maybe you’re the ghost.

You pour yourself into your work, the pale glow of the computer warding off the disquiet as you churn through the day's reports. It seems all you do lately is work, but you don’t mind. It’s soothing, the chatter of the keyboard and the dry technical jargon shutting off your thoughts far more effectively than any of the meditation your counsellor recommends. You take whatever overtime you can get, tiring yourself out until you can drop into a sleep that’s blissfully deep and dreamless.  

It’s not surprising when you receive the offer that night to return to in-person work at some new Site across the country. It doesn’t matter where it is, just that it’s far, far away from here.

You reply with your acceptance as soon as you finish reading the email. 
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+++++ Day 90

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

You pause, lukewarm coffee halfway to your lips, and look up at the solemn face of… well, you don’t know his name yet, but you’ve only been here for a few days. You look around the break room for someone, anyone else he could be talking to, but no, there's only you. 

“... I’m sorry, you might have mistaken me for someone else?” You finally manage, a prickling cold creeping across the back of your neck.

A cloud seems to pass behind his eyes, his concern melting into confusion, and then embarrassment. He laughs awkwardly, taking a step back from your table.

“Ah, I’m so sorry! Must be thinking of someone else. I don’t know why I said that. Long day, must have gotten some wires crossed.”

You smile politely, reassuring him that it’s no big deal, we all have these kinds of mix-ups. He apologises again. You promise that, seriously, it’s ok. It’s fine. You really wish this conversation would end.

When he finally leaves, you toss the remains of your coffee into the bin, stomach suddenly sour. You take one of your anxiety meds to take the edge off as you return to your cubicle. 

You don’t know why that conversation bothered you so much. With some effort, you push it to the back of your mind. No time to dwell, you’ve got work to do.

By the end of your shift, you’ve forgotten about the incident altogether. 
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+++++ Day 150

It’s embarrassing to admit to yourself, but you actually look forwards to sessions with your counsellor. You’re friendly with your coworkers, but you’ve never really been able to make friends, your life full of acquaintances. It’s a relief to be able to share the thoughts too personal for other people.

Lately, you’ve been wondering if you’ve always felt this way. You don’t remember a time that you didn’t feel this vacant, but there must have been some reason you had that breakdown, an answer for why you're so pointless.

Your counsellor's smile is consoling. 

“Unfortunately, it’s not usually caused by one easily pinpointed incident. A combination of general life stressors, and your pre-existing brain chemistry, can cause these periods of low mood.”     

He reassures you that depression affects a lot of people, that many people can overcome it to live fulfilling lives. Even if it can be lifelong, there's no reason to despair.

You agree you’ve gotten better. Your migraines are gone, you sleep through the night, and you’re back at work. You’re doing good work. Everyone is so proud of you, he says. He tells you to keep your chin up, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He promises that every day will get a little easier.  
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+++++ Day 300

You only drink socially now, and if there’s ever been a good excuse to drink, it’s the Foundation Christmas party. They’ve treated your department to dinner at some nice restaurant downtown, one with cloth napkins folded in pretty shapes, and jazz covers of Christmas carols. 

Against your better judgement, you let the wine melt your hard edges, face warm and flushed from equal amounts of alcohol and laughter, as you listen to your colleagues trade banter over plates of fancy entrées. You deserve to celebrate. You’ve truly been such an invaluable member of staff since the day you transferred, everyone tells you.  

As the night progresses, you let yourself fall into conversation with some technician whose name you really should remember, but right now, you care about the quirk of his lips and warmth in his eyes far more than his name. The pair of you excuse yourselves to a quiet corner as the conversation continues, and pretend you don’t notice the little sprig of mistletoe pinned over your table. 

When he leans in, you close the gap and press your lips to his. 

It’s like something ruptures in your stomach, a seal that lets the strength drain from your limbs and allows a creeping, buzzing numbness to seep in. Keeping an iron grip on your composure, you gently excuse yourself to the restroom. It’s the wine, you reassure him, you simply aren’t feeling very well, it’s nothing you did wrong, you promise. 

You're fortunate enough to lock yourself in a stall before the tears come. 

You stifle your ragged breath through gritted teeth, listening to the faucets running and toilets flushing around you as the knuckles of your balled fists go white. You try and focus on the bite of nails in your palm, swallowing down the fire in your lungs, shutting out the hollow weight in your stomach. 

You don’t know why it hurts so much.

Arms braced against the stall walls, you do your breathing exercises until you can stand up straight again, and wait for the bathroom to empty so you can wash your face and clean the blood from your palms. 

You reassure yourself that panic attacks happen. It’s normal. You’re normal. You’re fine. Besides, it’s probably better not to get involved in a workplace romance. Keep things focused, professional. Better nip things in the bud now. As painful as it was, maybe this was a sign. 

When you take a cab home, you take it alone. It’s for the best. 
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+++++ Day 375

You only see your counsellor every couple of weeks now. He says you've made amazing progress, that you should be proud of yourself. He says the goal of these sessions now is just to keep an eye on you, catch any future issues early. It's supposed to be reassuring, you think. 

You //are// better now. You haven't had another incident since the Christmas party. You stay focused and professional at work, and at home, you read books, watch TV, work some more. Keeping busy is the best way to fill the cavity in your mind, the one that still aches if you let it. 

So you simply don't let it.    

You have dreams of an empty coffee table, and ignore the dampness of your pillow upon waking. 
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+++++ Day 450

It’s been a year since you started your job at the new site, and you’ve been given a raise, along with a firm handshake from the Site Director himself. He says he has you in mind for a department head position, if you keep up the good work. You smile warmly, thank him profusely. Your coworkers clap you on the back and make good-natured jokes, wondering if you even sleep, or just stay at the office 24 hours a day. You laugh, and act suitably humble and modest. 

At the end of the day, you return to your apartment. You consider using money from the raise to finally decorate the place, but discard the thought. The less time you spend here, the better. Can’t afford to stagnate, to dwell. 

You make dinner. You watch game shows while you eat. You shower. You go to bed. Another day, the same as the one before, the same as the one tomorrow. 

Every day, it gets a little easier.

Every day, there’s a little less of you left.
Every Day, It Gets a Little Easier

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