VOICES
SEE ME WALKING By Anica Zulch
In three seconds, we’re gonna do it. We’re gonna get up, okay Nix? We can do this. Don’t think, just do. 3…2…1. I force myself to slide my hand underneath me, pushing, peeling, forcing myself up off the floorboards in my bedroom. The dark droplets of my tears on the wood are the only evidence of my presence. Of my lowpoint. Of my surrender. Surrender to the pain, to the hopelessness, to the desperation. I’m only up for a few minutes, hunched over and head low, before I brace myself for another wave of pain, crumple over, and lay down again, resuming the familiar position on the hardwood
22 TUFTS OBSERVER OCTOBER 11, 2021
floor. A harsh reality washes over me, and I’m forced to face the facts: I’m weak. It’s a sad realization, I won’t deny it, but it’s the truth. I’m not strong enough to stand up to the pain. Not strong enough to admit I need help, or even just company. Not strong enough to stop the tears from flowing. Not strong enough to believe in something. Not strong enough to just. be. fine. It’s funny, the things you notice when you try to focus on anything but the pain you’re currently feeling. With my cheek pressed against the cold wood, I can’t help but think of how grateful I am that I
