I am lying in bed, waiting for Netflix to load my next episode of Tiger King. Six o'clock, and nothing has happened; six o’clock, and my room is already shrouded in darkness; six o’clock, and I have opened my phone five times and seen no text messages. I have scrolled through Instagram and finished five episodes of Tiger King. I have had a few random thoughts. 

Winter is long this year, the dreariness punctuated only by my weekly counseling sessions over Zoom and the old sense of loss, almost bereavement, I feel whenever I finish an episode and have to start another.

As I wait for Netflix to load my sixth episode of Tiger King, my eyes wander across the room. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror dangling on the wall.  A pair of filthy sweats reigns in place of the ironed dresses I used to wear before school closed. There is a hole the size of my fist in my shirt.

My physical appearance sympathizes with my mental deterioration. My thoughts linger consistently on unpleasant memories, breeding bitterness and spite that corrode my endowment of generosity and goodwill. 

Just now, for example, I’m particularly oppressed by a very ancient piece of memory. It comes vividly to mind while I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror, and it plagues me like a tiresome musical motif I can’t evade. It weighs heavily on me, compelling me to relive my third-grade humiliation. I know the distance between now and then renders the experience unimportant and that probably no one even remembers it. But I do. And I cannot stop thinking about it. The more I dwell on that memory, the more I wince and feel badly about myself. The worse I feel about myself, the more I’m reminded of other similarly humiliating experiences. Painful memories straggle in and out of my thoughts, the new and archived intermixed. 

I open my window to extricate myself from my thoughts. The street is vacant, like the text notification center on my phone. 

I begin another episode of Tiger King.