At the beginning of every day, all I want is to reach the end.

I have rituals that I change from time to time. Right now, we are in the era of Greek yoghurt with cinnamon and coffee, which I add as I please, depending on my mood. Around 7:00 PM, the moment of compulsive chewing arrives. The urgent need to become one with the couch awakens. It’s the sign that the day is over, that hours have been filled more or less consciously, that I have done my duty. There is always this unexpressed energy that doesn’t know which sea to dive into. This vital pulse that calls me to I-don’t-know-what, and which I mortify with:

· aligning objects on the bathroom shelf;

· zoning out with series and movies on Netflix;

· faded attempts to give myself an air of importance by writing a post on LinkedIn, fueling the fantasy of strange and improbable projects. Projects I don’t discuss with anyone because I’ve realised I don’t have the words to explain them.

Some days are lighter than others. For example, I never skip my workout. For the past few days, I’ve been performing on the terrace after having breakfast outside — the only sense of beauty in a terrace that is always too big for my taste. I amuse myself by passing gas. A lot of it builds up. I relieve myself this way, trying to avoid the noise and embarrassing moments; but at five in the morning, nobody can hear me. There is this primordial sense of solitude, this hope that never quiets down. I lean on this crutch. I judge myself, harshly. And then I start over, without granting myself an appeal. Mercilessly, because I don’t deserve a chance. And no one can convince me otherwise.

I am a jumble of contradictions. No one can fathom my submerged world. Every time I’ve let a glimpse of it show, I’ve sensed an indifference that was not pleasant at all. So I closed the chest again and threw away the key. It’s lost. I don’t know how to connect; I don’t know how to open up. When in doubt, I don’t do it anymore.

I could assign countless blame. We all know to whom — good old Sigmund. However, I refrain from doing so. It doesn’t serve me. I keep chewing. To feel why, at some unknown point, the communication between my mind and my heart broke down. Everything remained imprisoned up there, like Rapunzel, but without the braid. I’ve already said that I reject the more-or-less fearless climbers of my inner self.

I cannot stand touching my belly. I take a shower and, if I brush against it, I don’t look at it; that way, if it’s bloated like a balloon — if my air-clearing incursions weren’t enough — I pretend it’s not there. I detach myself to overcome the fear of the dark by throwing the blanket of blindness over myself.

A few days ago, a friend of mine told me that I don’t go out in the evening anymore because my mother is sick; ergo, it’s pointless to call me or make proposals — better to condemn me to inexorable isolation. An isolation that consumes itself day by day. I’ve learned to sink into denial. Asserting oneself is not important.

Another friend of mine complains and then allows herself rejuvenating breaks, in which I am not included because my mother is sick.

In the end, it’s easier to leave, to look the other way. Because it’s easier to be selfish than to share. Because pain is contagious, and for certain germs, there are no FFP2 masks. Or perhaps everyone “has the right to live as best they can,” and I am no exception.

This morning, though, I almost felt a rush of emotion: I discovered that a job competition has been posted. A possible motivation for my time. A sense of purpose. Unhoped for. I celebrate a small victory. I’ll hold onto it tightly until tomorrow.

My day in a nutshell (1) was originally published in The Narrative on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.