Today is not made for caffeine.

My heart hurts. I feel it always, at all times — its slow, enduring, physical pain — its weight, its heft, its relentless reluctance to beat, to carry on. The fist of it clutches my chest and refuses to let go — burly, tattooed, with bad breath and a mustache. It blows smoke in my face, it pins me to the wall like a butterfly that remains, for this moment, alive.

I see no use in flying anymore, so just like that, I stop beating my wings. They hang beside me, empty balloons.

Each day my big adventure is making coffee. Not drinking coffee, just making it. I lug my heart from the bed to the kitchen and back again, maybe two times, maybe three. I forego caffeine because it accentuates the pain — it shoves it from behind the curtain, onto the stage. It shines a spotlight and in this limp, yellow glare, I see my own ghost.

I am by myself; I am alone. I’ve grown pale now, almost translucent. My shoulders slump, my chin folds. I regard the dusty floor.

No audience fills the seats. Everyone went home, shaking their heads, perplexed. In the silence, I hear the swollen thud of my heart, flopping about like a fish on a plank.

Always I forget my fake coffee. Halfway through, I’ve lost interest. I’ve grown bored. Instead I crawl under the covers. I curl to one side. I close my eyes. I breathe. I pray. I seem to believe that if I focus very hard, if I sweep up all the shards of my intent, I can fathom a way to break free.

Lately I pick a spot on the wall — an afternoon shadow, say. I stare and feel my heart. I feel my forlorn heart; I accept its rage, I let it loop and falter. I feel my heart for all I’m worth, and once in a while, I cry.

Crying also causes physical pain — loud, sharp, foreign. Noise! Human noise! As soon as I start, I stop. I despise feeling sorry for myself. I flinch and fall back to sleep.

These words sound just like tears. I hate them, hot and wet as they cling to the curves of my cheeks. I hate them and want to stab each one.

This is my whole life for eight years.

Dear Audrey,

I’m hoping to catch you tonight but worried I’ve waited too late. I both miss you and can’t seem to summon the energy, concentration, forbearance to write — a conundrum that confuses me. This is definitely a “me problem” — you are at no fault, you are as lovely as ever! I think I feel a bit shabby about myself lately which makes me hesitant to sit still, focus, form words. There is nothing much to report.

When I was first becoming sober and taking DBT, while Rose lived at my sister’s and I still got to talk to Prince everyday, I felt more positive. I was not excited by sobriety in any measure, but I was indeed determined to make a go of it.

In these early days, I went to at least one meeting a day. I walked and ran. I drove to the beach and pounded the waves with my bare fists. I was sad and pissed. I did my homework and read the big book and gussied myself up every night, because I can roll my hair and put on lipstick in the dark, blindfolded.

Those days were unbearable actually, but I did move forward. I gained some momentum. I tried for dear life.

Now I am four months in and couldn’t care less. I isolate de rigueur, a matter of function and form. I talk myself out of meetings more often than not. I wile away the hours coloring and reading news about places I’ll never go and people I’ll never meet.

Is it the coming of fall, this hateful time of year when shadows grow long and testy, when humidity takes flight, when the monarchs move south, when the sky curdles into a crisp cobalt dome above me? Is it the annual arrival of hopelessness?

Do I miss Prince, my lifeline, who I am now certain never loved me once, who tricked me at every turn, but whom I loved, truly?

Is it the loss of the schedule and structure of my beloved DBT group, the scattering of friends, the dissolution of relationships I’d grown to trust?

Is it my boredom with AA, my mismatch with my therapist? Is it the stunning way money seems to vaporize from my account like dry ice at the end of a concert — nothing left but the empty black stage, an extension cord, leftover tape?

Is it the realization that I have no plan in life, not even a foolish one, not even one to amuse me in my dreams? Is it Rose’s return, her guttural omnipresence? Do I need a new crush? New clothes? Maybe a pedicure, and a sporty blue coat that fits?

What if it is none of these things? What if it is just me?

Audrey, I am regretting this letter. I send it only in the absence of anything else. I must redeem myself, and soon.

XO