Page 20 of The Problem with Players

Wesley had already left for his morning workout. He always woke before me, before the sun, too, and he’d be gone by the time my eyes opened.

I lay in bed as the weight of my own breath felt like a boulder on my chest. The sunlight crept through the curtains, a slimmer of light in the darkness of my room, mocking the darkness that currently clung to me like a second skin. I hated these moments. The moments when I slipped into a type of sadness I couldn’t make sense of.

I’m not depressed.

I’m not depressed.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Those words kept playing repeatedly through my mind. They were trying to push out the other thoughts that seemed to grow louder and louder with every passing second.

Stay down.

What’s the point of getting up?

I hated days like today. Days when the battle inside me raged fiercer than I’d had the strength to fight. Depression was an uninvited guest to my soul, and it had thrown a shroud over my will, leaving me paralyzed in the sanctuary of my bed.

The digital clock on my nightstand kept changing, a relentless reminder of the world moving forward without me. I wanted to get up and shake off the despondency sticking to me, but my body refused to obey my wants.

I was tired.

So desperately exhausted.

It was as if my limbs were tethered to the mattress, each attempt to move quashed by an invisible force.

“Get up, get up, get up, Avery,” I whispered to the hollowness, a feeble attempt to summon any shred of willpower. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, as though it belonged to another person. I felt as if my own soul had abandoned my body, and I was left with nothing more than emptiness.

I had many reasons to be happy.

Sure, a few things had gone wrong lately, but there was more good than bad. I was getting married in three weeks. In three short weeks, I’d be saying “I do” to someone who loved me. Someone who chose me even though I never felt good enough.

I wasn’t good enough.

“No,” I murmured, knowing those thoughts were not myown. It was the depression seeping in, feeding me with its devilish lies—lies I was trying my hardest to fight.

As I lay there, my phone suddenly rang, breaking me out of the small trance I found myself in. Yara’s name flashed across the screen. I stared at it but didn’t answer.

She called back again.

And again.

It was clear she needed me when the fourth call came in. That was enough to slice through the room's silence—people needed me. Her persistent calls were a telltale sign of that fact. I didn’t have time to freeze because people outside counted on me to defrost myself to help them with their own issues.

I reached for the phone with shaky hands.

“Hello?” I asked as my voice croaked.

“Avery,” Yara cried with a frantic tone, a tone that mirrored the turmoil within my own soul, yet it was external, real, and urgent. Not like my issues. My issues were not as important.

Her tearful tone made me prop myself up to a sitting position.

“Yara. What is it? Are you okay? Is the baby all right? What do you need?” I said, pushing down my own issues to focus on hers. That was the quickest way to knock me out of my darkness. I’d focus on other people’s issues and put mine on the back burner.

“The baby’s fine. It’s just…can you come over? I need you.”

I need you—three words that got me out of bed. I didn’t have time to be sad. I was needed by others. At that moment, the fog of depression that clouded my thoughts began to lift slightly. Not enough to dispel it, but enough to give me a sliver of energy to go to my sister’s to make sure she was all right. That was my job as an older sister, after all. To be altogether for others so they felt safe enough to fall apart.

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