Moving is hard.
Each movement deliberate and consciously made, as my instincts and reactions are on pause.
Each thought of movement trickles slowly from brain to muscle, then heavily, leadenly muscle creaks into motion heaving me along with it.
Sounds are blurred and jumbled, swirling through the underwater of the air around me; echoing and crackling like a mistuned radio in an empty warehouse.
I hear my name and think about turning my head. The thought percolates into action and slowly my head turns; vision following behind with a few seconds lag; conscious thoughts streaming out behind like chem trails.
Suddenly a snap into focus. I hear my husband talking about the day’s plans, and my children bickering about shoes. The washing machine sloshing and whirring and a neighbour’s car engine humming to life.
Before I can grasp the meaning of these inputs, they soften and blend into a buzz of incoherent sound and I am left once again staring blankly at my husband as he peters into frustrated silence.
‘Go back to bed, love,’ he says gently and kisses me on the forehead; toothpaste and stubble and children still saying ‘Shoes!’ and rugby cuddles at my knees, and the door opening and clicking shut, and just me and the washing machine and slowly the thought welling up in my weary brain: ‘I should go back to bed’.
Then I wait, for something to make that happen.
Because right now, moving is hard.