"It's not like I wanted to have a nervous breakdown," he said. "It just happens."
I didn't bother telling him that's not always the case. Sometimes, it's a slow burn to bottom, rather than a sudden drop. Sometimes you can see it coming. Off in the distance, it's a megalithic monster, casting a massive shadow of oppression as it slowly approaches. By the time it reaches you, it's the ice cream truck and you're the first one in line for a double-scoop of soft-serve insanity. At least, that's how it happened for me.
It started as a Thursday thing. That's where I first noticed the cycle. Thursdays were always tired days. The grind of the week, the fatigue, by Thursday they were catching up to me. By Friday, I could have thrown myself off a bridge, but the week was over. You get a good night's sleep and wake up refreshed on Saturday morning, ready to enjoy forty-eight hours of a life all your own.
Then one day, you wake up on Monday and it feels like Thursday and you know you're fucked. That's when I knew my goose was basted and cooked. I was watching it happen. I wanted it to happen. I realized I had been skirting the edge of the cliff for so long I had forgotten what it was like to walk freely. Indeed, by the time I fell off I might as well have jumped because I was ready. I was tired, and for me the endless fall, the descent into empty, it felt like freedom.
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