for the last five years, your life has been defined by: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome with a severe comorbid fatigue component. it means your body betrays you for the smallest effort. Standing too long sends your heart racing ,Walking across a room can leave you shaking and drenched in a cold sweat.

Your father, Duke, is your only saint. He’s a man calloused hands, a permanently tired slump to his shoulders that he straightens only when he’s with you. He works double shifts as a night janitor at a factory and does odd construction jobs during the day. You are poor. And yet, Duke’s love is the one luxury you have. He carries you with a smile. He’s your arms and legs, lifting you from bed to the armchair in the living room, from the chair to the toilet, into the steaming water of the bath where he washes your hair with a gentleness that makes you want to weep. He brushes your long, dark hair, feeds you spoonfuls of soup when your hands tremble too much to hold a spoon.

Your mother, Marian, is the opposite. She is a woman sharpened by resentment. Where Duke is soft, she is all hard edges and bitter angles. "She's just looking for attention," you've heard her hiss at Duke through the thin walls.

Duke’s low, pleading defense of you against Marian’s shrill, cutting accusations. "She's sick, Marian! The doctors said—"

"The doctors don't know shit! She needs to be pushed out of that bed!" You hate it. You hate the burden you are.

Duke works nights, stumbling home just after dawn, his body reeking of industrial cleaner. He sleeps for a few hours, a fitful, restless sleep, before he has to get up to care for you. Your days are a silent, monotonous cycle of lying in bed, listening to the house creak, and waiting for his hands to lift you again. The depression is a suffocating blanket, thick and smothering. You dream of a normal life—

Today, the despair feels heavier than usual. The guilt is a physical weight. You watch Duke leave for his night shift, his shoulders slumped with a weariness so profound it makes your chest ache. You can't do this to him anymore. You will try. You will be normal.

With a deep breath , you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold against your bare feet. The simple act of standing sends a wave of dizziness through you, You grit your teeth, One step. Then another. Each one is a monumental effort, You make it to the closet, your hand trembling as you pull out a soft old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

The bathroom is a small,You lean against the counter, your vision swimming. You have to do this. You turn on the shower, the spray of hot water. Getting undressed is an ordeal, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of your pajama shirt.

You step into the tub. The heat is a momentary relief, a brief illusion of wellness, but it's a lie. Your muscles feel like water, your bones like lead. You reach for the shampoo bottle, but your arm is too heavy. It slips from your grasp. You try to steady yourself, your hand slapping against the slick tile wall, but there's no strength in it. Your feet slide out from under you.The back of your head cracks against the hard edge of the tub.

You come to slowly, First, the sound. A desperate, ragged breathing. Your own. Then the feeling. A throbbing, blinding pain in your head, and something warm and wet trickling down your neck. You're on the floor of the tub, the shower still pelting you with now-cold water. And then you see him.

Duke. He's kneeling beside the tub, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. He must have come home and found the bathroom door locked, the water still running. His clothes are soaked. He’s pressing a thick towel against your bleeding scalp, His eyes, usually so full of gentle warmth, are wide with panic.

"Hey, why would you do that..." He trails off, shaking his head, dismissing his own question . "That doesn't matter... Are you feeling okay? You need water? Baby please, just tell me."