Article by Katie Rowley Art by Isabella Hageman
I greet February with a buzzing alarm on my wrist. It is time to wake up. Darkness reigns as the sun begins to fight its way into the day. Clouds scatter the skyline. Eyelids forced open, joining the sun in its battle against the soothing black of sleep. I force my hand to reach not for the phone buried underneath one of my pillows but for the always full water bottle. It rests on my grandmother’s nightstand, next to a stack of books and crystals and my mom’s Tiffany lamp. Tired fingers fumble around in the dark for the inline rotary cord switch; it’s finicky and worn down. The light flickers as I push the wheel, ridges pressing into my finger tips. A warmness floods my room. Hand recedes back to my body and I stretch. White metal encasing the 32 ounces of water I will soon swallow lifts into the air with my arms. I shake out the exhaustion. Breathe in the quietness that only comes from seven sleeping roommates. I relish in the silence. In the superiority of seeing the sun break into the day. I relish being the first thing the sun touches. I relish the hours alone. The sleeping hours sacrificed since thirteen.
The water bottle reaches my lips and last night’s stale water I poured from our apartment sink faucet washes away the saliva stuck to gums and in between teeth. My dreams wash away as I swallow. Thirty minutes must pass before I reach for my phone. My watch keeps track as I reach over and grab the Plath that has lived on my nightstand since October. A stolen paper snowflake bookmarks my dismal progress. She writes too many lists of too many names I do not know. I keep waiting to see myself in her but I know I will never finish her. Still, fingers flick to the page I gave up on eight hours ago. Pages are read. The sun struggles against the clouds. Water is devoured. Thirty minutes tick by.
Hand dives under pillow, grasping at my phone. Anxious at what awaits behind a passcode. There is nothing. In an hour there will be a text from Mom. But, there was silence in the night. And there will be silence this morning. I scroll Twitter. I send Mom my Wordle score. I scroll TikTok. I open my morning routine checklist note, happy to check off no phone, reading, and water. I open the app that tells me which workouts I should be doing based on if I am bleeding or not. A twenty-one minute lymph node detox yoga exercise is done when I convince myself to shove discarded clothes into a corner and roll out my purple yoga mat. I am worried my feet are too loud; the foam does not seem to silence me enough. Blood, that grew still in the night, runs its way through arteries and vessels. Heart ventricles pump. Oxygen flows in and carbon dioxide flows out.
I roll up the mat. Hand throws phone on bed. I decide to stop ignoring the pressure of my bladder and break into the day with a run to the bathroom. I scurry back to my room. I pull out the scale and make sure I weigh less than yesterday. I walk back to the window. Navy sky outside has begun to lighten. Snow is melting and it is still too cold for a morning walk. I plan for one in the afternoon. I check the time. 6:00 am. I sit on the edge of my bed, feet dangling in the air. I am trying to decide if I should clean my room or shower. The eastern sunlight slowly sneaks into my room. I chose shower and lay out jeans and one of mom’s sweaters.
The water is hot. Maybe too hot. The suds are in my hair and on my body and in my eyes. I do not feel ashamed when I look down. I speak to a high power through the water streaming down my face. I am so lucky. Everything is always working out for me. Hi, my name is Katie and this is my debut book. I am the luckiest girl in the world. I get everything I want. I say amen with a twist of the faucet. Let it linger on cold. A baptism.
Wrapped in pink towels, I stand and love myself in the mirror. I rub CeraVe vitamin C serum and a thirty dollar moisturizer and 30 SPF sunscreen onto the soft skin of my face. Still surrounded by silence, I savor the moment. The connection. The ridges of my nose and cheekbones and jaw. Teeth are brushed and alarms behind shut doors are going off. They are snoozed. A purple straightener given to me by a middle school best friend is plugged in.
Feet shuffle to room. The door is shut. The towel drops. Lacy bra and matching thong bought to impress a boy two years ago are slipped on. Jeans and the sweater follow. The towel wrapped up in my hair is taken down. I bend down to put on black socks. And I slide back to the bathroom. Hang up towels and stare at myself in the mirror some more. Sometimes Heather is up by now and we gossip over the buzz of electric toothbrushes. Today she is still sleeping. Bangs are straightened and thin brown hair is brushed. One final prayer is said: today will be a good day. 7:00 am.
Phone is grabbed and headphones are placed in ears as I venture past the sleeping second floor, down to the kitchen. I grab the black frying pan and place it on the stove. I turn on the heat. I grab an egg and bread and deli turkey and cheese I selected from the $5 cheese bin at King Soopers. I fry the egg. I grind the salt and pepper. I shake the red pepper. I toast the bread, put it on a plate. I flip the egg. I cut cheese and place it on the egg. I dig through the basket of pan lids and find the small one. I fill the edge with water from our sink and pour onto the hot pan. The cheese melts. I put turkey on top. I lift the egg to the bread. Carry the plate back up the stairs. I eat in my room.
8:00 am. For an hour I watch the sunlight consume my room. I lay on my bed. I fold clothes. I read a few more pages of Plath. I pack my backpack. I count my calories. I look over my schedule. I tie up my Reeboks. I grab my jacket from where it is slumped on the floor. I grab my door handle, the metal cool in my hands. I breathe in the last moments of the day I will have complete to myself. I breathe in the control. I breathe. I am sacred before 9:00 am.
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June comes with the always constant 5:00 am alarm. The twin sized mattress is on the floor. Boxes are scattered in the shoebox of a room. I am awake before the buzzing begins. Eyes still shut, trying to prompt sleep all night. The dreams never come. Brain too racked with anxiety. When the alarm rings, my eyes shoot open. Hand snatches phone from underneath my pillow. A text from Mom: How are you doing? Yesterday there were tears and a man who shot discomfort so deep into my bone marrow, it will take a lifetime to disappear. I begged them to not leave me. I watched them drive away from my bedroom window. Waved to them with sobs still stuck in my throat.
This morning, the white water bottle sits empty on the wooden floor. I do not reach for it, hands too invested in phone. I text Mom back. I open Twitter. It is only 5:10 am. There is no room to unroll the purple yoga mat. It is warm enough for a walk, but there is no courage to place my hand on the metal door handle and step outside. I watch minutes tick by, still lying on the mattress. I switch between Twitter and TikTok. I pull the yellow comforter up to my neck. I sink deeper into the pillows. I try my hardest to not fall back to sleep. I have work at 9:00 am. I will leave at 8:45 am.
7:30 am. Hand drops phone on twin mattress. I throw off the comforter. Brisk air let in from the cracked windows engulf every inch of skin not covered by the hand-me-down, vintage, oversized TCU t-shirt. I stretch my arms up to the ceiling, trying to release the anxiety from shaking hands. It does not work. I force my sock-covered feet to meet the floor and my body to stand. I search through duffle bags to find jeans and a t-shirt and rain jacket. June has brought rain this year. I grab my towel from its place in a box. I scurry from my room to the bathroom down the hallway. The air outside my room sticks to my skin. I wash away the humidity and tears of yesterday with a swift and scared shower. No time for prayers. I do my skincare with shaky hands. Straighten my bangs. Dress. Return to my room, grabbing a banana from the unpacked grocery bag that sits on my Winnie the Pooh chest. I watch clouds form in the west. The sun rose long ago, breaking into a blue blue sky. But the rain will come. I pack my laptop and journal in my tote bag. I do not feel in control. Countdown the minutes before 8:45 am.
When I have to leave, I turn left to walk to campus. I do not look at the church next door. I do not feel god.
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A semester and a graduation pass. It is January. I wake with a ring from an alarm clock I begged my mom to buy me. I try to return to the routine. I stay off my phone for 30 minutes. Reading books. Brandon gave me a stack in October. I feel bad I’ve only read two of them. I feign an interest in their words. I drink water from the half-empty white bottle. But when I allow my hand to reach under pillow and grab phone, there is nothing stopping me from wasting hours. No class. No job. There is nothing for me. I send Mom my Wordle score. I feel cursed lying in bed. Unholy, covered in yesterday’s disappointments and dreams of boys that haunt me. I stay wrapped in a heated blanket until dogs barge in, stampeding me. Until Mom comes to ask me what my plans are. I waste away on my phone. I will spend the whole day floating around in discontent with myself. I do not bother to stretch. I shake sleep from my limbs as I walk to the bathroom. I put in contacts. I stare at myself as I brush my teeth. I cannot recognize the girl staring back at me.