for The Small Bow

Sometimes when my boyfriend texts me to tell me he’s on his way home from work, I type back, “my legs are broken.” I don’t know why I insist on this code when we both know what it means. It’s embarrassing to be so plagued by my thoughts, especially because I have 11 years sober. I’m supposed to be out of my own head, serviceable to others, and serene. Instead, I get a voice that says “you are a useless piece of shit.” It might just be a symptom of depression, but it never feels like it. It always feels like the truth. (continued)