Early Morning

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My alarm did not ring. Not yet. So early. I'm two hours early. Again. I stayed up late last night, searching for ideas. Searching until nothing was left in my mind, and I blacked out. I don't recall how late it was, really. And now I've woken before the alarm. The soul-dragging weariness always returns, always waits for me around midday. It waits until I should be working. Would be working, if I could breathe properly. Should be working. I've been promising and promising, swearing upon all I am that I should not be let go. I can do this. I'm getting better at controlling this. Just a little more... and a little more. I take a pill. First of the day. No food for half an hour before, or after. Waiting to add the pill I should take with food. Then to find a food that doesn't hurt my voice. I need my voice for my job. I almost miss the angry customers. Almost. I do miss my coworkers, though. Sass and snark and mean little messages written on whiteboards to each other during the more exasperating of the callers. Stress balls tossed from desk to desk. The neighbor who throws candy at me if I'm looking dead enough. It's a small community of friendly faces. They comfort me even as the customers eat me alive. I'm not there yet. My allergies send salt down my throat. Most foods send an acid back up. My words are caught burning in the middle. My alarm finally rings. I dismiss it, but don't turn off the later warnings. I lose track of time, waiting between pills and foods and the sensation of losing my speech too quickly. I add water. Water helps everything but the acid. I think the acid is burning holes into my being, if the blood I coughed up is any indication. I'll mention it at my next appointment, so long as I still have my job and its insurance. Dry heaving is normal now. Blood is normal. It speckles my face, and I wear red for the next week or so from the force of the moment. Time turns around me and I sit still. Slowing watching everything escape me. All but the illness. Not even something easily visible, or well-known. When I'm not speckled I look well. Until just before my voice leaves me again, I sound well. I think my coworkers are giving up on me. I think they believe I've given up, too. I can take my next pill, so I go to heat up something to eat with it. And I hope today I can return to work. I hope.