The Wall

I remember driving at night used to be a release. Just me, the road, music loud enough to drown out my own thoughts for a minute or sharpen them, depending on what I needed. It wasn’t a solution. It was a pressure valve. Now half the time I can’t even do that because there are kids asleep at home and I’m the only one here. That sounds small. It’s not. Losing the tiny escapes changes the whole texture of the day. When the responsibilities are nonstop and the pressure keeps building, the lack of an exit matters. There are nights I can feel the need to leave my skin and there is nowhere to go. So I pace mentally. I scroll. I stare. I fold laundry. I listen to music at a lower volume because nobody asked for the soundtrack to my emotional collapse at 11:30 p.m. And I think about how grief doesn’t just take the person. It shrinks the breathing room around the person left behind.