Week 1 Non-fiction

 My fatigue doesn't make much sense when I look at the clock. 9:00. It feels like midnight. The whole place smells like drywall and the sound of my dad’s voice echoes through the vacant space. I guess he’s going through prices with a supervisor.

    When I look at my dad, my heart aches. He works so hard all the time. His workers are unreliable and nobody is willing to put in the kind of effort it takes to get the job done in a reasonable amount of time. How much longer will he have to do this? I hate that I can’t do anything to make any of it any better. I can’t think like that though. If I let myself, I’ll spiral down into a bleak bottomless pit of depression. It is a bit tempting to let the familiar weight settle over me.

    “Jennifer will you come hand me the drill?” I never even noticed him get off the phone.

    Sighing heavily, I pull my weight off the floor and trudge over to the corner with the tools in it. Where’d that stupid drill go? I spot it behind a bucket of mud. It’s dusty when I grab it and I hate getting dust on my hands.

    “I got the drill,” I reassure. If I take too long, he gets impatient. I’m so tired of this dreary life. I’m so tired of not being able to do anything to make it better for my dad. I’ll do what I can to help out and make things just a bit easier if I can. But to what end?

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Story-telling is what I am good at, so I story-journaled. This assignment is a look at my inner monologue as I help my dad. I actually wrote this a while ago before I started on an anti-depressant. I think that the way that I have written this reflects a bit of how depression sits on a person, if only briefly.