Time Travelling by Katie Isham
Photo by George Becker for Pexels
TW: Depression
One hour.
Just need to get through one hour.
The next hour.
There’ll be more after, but this is the mountain I face now.
The elephant in the room.
The monkey on my back.
I think I could spend it contemplating idioms. I start to list them. I even get my notepad. But my attention span soon wanes. I throw in the towel.
Fifty-nine minutes.
It’s less than before.
I can do this.
I just need to find something to do for the next hour.
The bathroom needs cleaning. I don’t want to do it. I really don’t want to stick my hand down a shitty toilet. But it’s got to be done. It’ll take time. It’ll give me purpose. I’ll really enjoy the blank canvas the next time I drop anchor.
I add those to my idiom list as I’m bathroom-bound.
Fifty-eight.
I’m distracted passing the kitchen. I put the breakfast bits away first. Clink, clunk. Mugs on the tree. A percussionist’s drawer of cutlery. Things in their rightful places. Reuniting the lonely lid with the pots. It’s soothing. My mind clears. My heart beats in time to the mundanity.
Fifty-five.
Boring chores are a tonic. I throw myself in as I throw the silverware back out of the drawer. And the plastic tray. And the broken utensils languishing at the sides. And the packets of unopened chopsticks and unidentifiable crumbs.
In goes the anti-bac spray. And the sponge. And the scrubber on the crusty brown stain in the bottom left corner that I can’t remember materialising.
I scrub and scour and swipe and soak until my fingers are crimson prunes. The evicted cutlery items stare at me until I bathe them as well. Carefully dried and then ordered back into their newly refurbished accommodation. I consider altering the compartment configuration, but I can’t deal with that much change.
Thirty-nine.
A good distraction. There’s much to mine in the cleaning reserve. I mentally list the household jobs. I start with taking the recycling out.
Outside.
The sunlight prickles my eyes; I wonder when I last ventured out. Maybe the last bin day? I forget. I hear a neighbour and panic they’ll see me. Interaction would be a step too far. My mind wanders as I falter with handfuls of dead groceries.
Bottles and jars clank into the glass bin. The noise offends my ears, so used to silence. I scurry back into safety.
Thirty-five.
That adventure deserves a reward. I put the kettle on. Tea and toast. Second breakfast. I dither between jam and marmalade; I plump for the citrus option to boost my immunity. Healthier than dunking biscuits.
The radio keeps me company as I dine. Slurping slightly too hot tea, my heart beats faster as I hear the never-ending bad news.
Bad news.
Bad news.
I dunk and devour four digestives as a chaser.
Twenty-three.
The radio gets banished for failing to bring hope. I tell it to try again tomorrow as I repatriate the teaspoon to the gleaming drawer. The rest of the kitchen looks shabby by comparison and I vow to do something about it. Later. I brush the toast crumbs to the floor for future me.
Twenty-one.
I remember starting that book I got for Christmas. The one I’d wanted for ages. The one that became my newest bedside coaster. I pick it up again and continue where I left off. Where the folded down corner tells me I abandoned the story mid-chapter. I can’t do that again. I splay the book out on the arm of the sofa and go hunting for a suitable bookmark. I need a bookmark. I can’t read without one.
I find a takeaway menu on the doormat. It came yesterday. It’ll do.
The sofa lures me and we become one. My eyes read the words, but the story doesn’t get further than my corneas.
Words.
Chapters.
The words nod to each other with the false politeness of strangers. Maybe I’ll try again later. The menu makes a great bookmark.
Sixteen.
I watch the second hand pirouette.
Fifteen.
My eye catches the succulents on the windowsill. Easy to keep alive. Apparently. They’re not dead yet, so I suppose it’s true. I’ve been neglectful. Time to remedy that.
I rinse a used glass and fill from the tap. I dose each pot with enough water to sit proudly atop the soil. I watch it bubble and soak down. The succulents sigh with relief. I pick the brown leaves from the spiky one. Give it a chance.
There’s a peace lily in the bathroom. I remember placing it there but never watering it. Time to remedy that.
Camouflaged by empty shaving foam and shampoo bottles building up on the ledge, I rescue it. Water it. Apologise.
Nine.
Almost there.
But here, in the bathroom. There was something I was supposed to do.
Cleaning: I pick up the toilet brush. It’s shittier than the toilet.
I decide to leave it. For now.
Maybe next hour.
The peace lily and I escape the bathroom. The garden calls. Is it a garden? A cage of concrete with walls bearing down from all directions. The sun is on its brief daily visit.
The peace lily and I sit on the doorstep and breathe in the rays.
Five.
I close my eyes.
Open them.
One.
Made it through the impossible.
Now.
Another hour.
I close my eyes and hear the clock tick.
Katie Isham (she/her) is a writer, teacher, drummer and mild adventurer. She believes kindness is a superpower. You will find her in the south of England hanging out with dogs or eating cake. Sometimes simultaneously.
Visit Katie’s travel blog