Waking up this morning, I felt like I’d gone backward in time. It felt too similar to the beginning of the year when I had to attend brunch with my parents, where even the thought of a shower exhausted me. My depression had improved since then, I definitely had more positive days than sad ones, but it was still there, simmering under the surface, waiting for the perfect culmination of things to strike me down. The ugliness inside me was a living, breathing monster. Thinking of it any other way only minimized the destruction it could cause.
And it would destroy me if I let it.
I’d ignored it for too long, thinking it would go away or fix itself. I knew better, but the mere thought of putting on socks some days was too much. Now, anytime someone made a derogatory comment about depressed people, I wanted to slap them. Depression wasn’t something you could fix by “getting over it.” I wish there was a depression-suit people could wear for a day to know what it felt like. They made fake pregnant bellies; surely they could do this as well. If people understood it, maybe they would be kinder.
Who was I kidding? People were shit most of the time, even when they did know.
Okay, wow. Dark thoughts there, Lor. The effect my mother and Brian could have on my mood was startling, their energy sucking the life force from me. It made me realize how long I’d silently suffered under their oppression.
Heaving myself out of bed, I stumbled into the bathroom, all the positive endorphins from last night’s orgasm having left me. Shuffling into the kitchen, I started the coffee since I forgot to prepare it last night and then headed to the shower. Jude’s door was still closed, so I tiptoed past, not wanting to wake him. The kid finally got to be a teen, and I wanted to let him enjoy it and let him sleep in as much as possible.
Once I showered and dressed, I grabbed my coffee and checked my phone. I was trying to be better about it. I had to be with Jude in my life. It looked like I’d missed a few messages already based on the number of notifications I already had. Taking a big gulp of the hot liquid, I opened my messages.
Monroe: I just wanted you to know how amazing tonight was, and I can’t wait to have more. Thank you for giving me a chance and not hating me for having to step back.
Ah, okay, that wasn’t too bad. I’d text him back later or stop by after my punishment brunch. On to the next one.
Mr. Surly:If Tuesday still works, we can start this week. Just let me know soon. I can’t wait around forever.
Mr. Surly:Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a dick.
Mr. Surly:But let me know today.
Mr. Surly:Please. Kitten.
The usual anger I felt when I texted him was missing, and instead, I felt the flirty banter that had been underneath the surface of our barbs. I decided to text him now since one had come in about twenty minutes ago.
ME: That could work. Just depends on if you’re gonna bring your A-game.
Okay, I flirted. Go, me! The dots started to dance, and I held my breath, the adrenaline of it all exciting me as I perched on the stool; my coffee neglected.
Mr. Surly:Oh, Kitten, you’re the one who will be graded. Let’s just hope you can break a hold better than you can kick, or the only A will be your bra size.
Mr. Surly:Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean that.
Mr. Surly:Your tits are great, by the way. Come on, Kitten, don’t leave me hanging here. I’m still trying to figure out this whole not-hating-you thing.
Mr. Surly:Your ass is A+ too
ME: Oh? Are we grading body parts now? For your information, my bra size is a C, and if you’re not careful, you may never see them.
ME: Burn
ME: Jude taught me that one
Mr. Surly:I don’t think you’re supposed to announce where you learned things, Kitten. It takes away the effect. At least I have the knowledge that you’re just as bad at texting as me. It’s comforting since you’re pretty amazing at everything else.
ME: Wow, I think that’s the first genuine compliment you’ve given me.
Mr. Surly:I’m pretty shocked myself, but it goes to show you I’m not always an ass.
ME: Which you have a great one of.
ME: Wow, I can’t believe I put that.
Mr. Surly:Now, who’s objectifying who?
Mr. Surly:I’m glad you noticed. I work hard for these buns of steel.