Quicksand and Tea

She brews a cup of tea, watching little sediments of milk twirl around. It’s what happens when you use soy milk sometimes. The sight makes her feel slightly sick. No matter how many times she moves the spoon, in almost a whisking motion, the milk solids refuse to dissolve.

There it goes—swirl, swirl, swirl—some messed-up hypnotic tactic that sends her brain into a mad frenzy of annoyance.

She dumps the tea down the drain.

She hates tea anyway. Why does she even have it?

She hates the world. Hates how she starts a task and then gets too hot. Too anxious. Too frustrated, until she sinks back down into bed. She hates the strong suction that seems to emanate from Instagram and Facebook. The pull to watch one video after another. How eventually she feels cold from not moving her body and throws the blanket back over her legs. Warm in a cocoon, mind distracted until that little space between the end of one video and the start of another gives her just enough time to think “What am i doing?” And “Why am I not doing anything productive?”

But then the thought of doing something makes her frustrated all over again. No willpower. No motivation. No dedication. She gets hot again. Kicks the blanket off. Loses herself in social media—videos of gym people talking about dedication, people preaching about reducing social media while actively posting on social media.

A whole cycle.

So she thinks “Why don’t I just get out of bed and make myself something?” And she does. She slithers out of bed like a worm. She’s still in her pajamas. It’s the afternoon. But it’s a public holiday, and she’s not working, so why not.

Then she thinks about all the things she could do. Or start. She remembers she’s always wanted to do handstands. Her path to the kitchen gets diverted. She enters the living room, unrolls the yoga mat she hasn’t used in years and tries to go upside down, only to discover it’s much harder than it looks. She googles it, then gets frustrated that she has to start with all these small strengthening exercises.

She tries a headstand instead. Once. Twice. Nothing.

She’s hot now, sweating despite the air conditioning. She looks out the window. It’s a nice day, but the thought of going for a walk doesn’t appeal. She isn’t depressed. She just doesn’t have a bone of motivation in her body—only a whole lot of annoyance.

She finally goes to the kitchen and looks around. No food appeals to her. So she decides to make a tea.

And then this shit happens. This fucking soy milk shit.

She never wants to look at tea again. She stares at the carton of soy milk and thinks maybe she should go back to dairy. Maybe it’s even healthier. Then she remembers dairy breaks her skin out, and her skin is already breaking out.

So many ifs. Shoulds. Coulds. Pros and cons.

She thinks about watching TV for the hundredth time, even though she already sat in front of the big screen for three hours earlier, watching a show about a rogue FBI agent who can do a million pushups and punch people in the face. It inspired her to exercise, which she gave up on, went to bed, then eventually got out of bed to try stupid handstands.

She started on the couch. Now she’ll end up in the exact same place.

She thinks about tomorrow. What she should do. She scrolls through Google Flights. She asks ChatGPT about destinations. She asks it to build a routine to master handstands. She gets overwhelmed again. She gives in to the call of the TV remote.

She sits there in her pajamas, vaguely noticing the hours go by. Somewhere in the distance, her brain screams that she’s going to die soon. That she should live her life to the fullest.

Rah, rah, rah.

She wishes she were a celebrity.

She wishes she were more flexible.

She considers meditation to calm her mind.

The meditation podcast on Spotify pisses her off.

She’s stuck in the middle ground. It’s quicksand, and she’s drowning. All she can think about is whether or not to get a tattoo. She spends an hour on Pinterest looking up ideas. She hates some. She likes some. Then she gives up. It’s too hard. Too many options.

It makes her want to bang her head against the wall.

She looks at her hands and thinks, Why am I like this?

Why can’t I just decide?

Be organised.

Be content.

Be motivated.

How frustrating.

She goes to bed.

She wakes up.

Work gives her purpose, but also makes her think about her purpose. She sits at her desk and wonders what she’s doing. She hears her work crush talking about the date he went on yesterday while she was trying to balance on her head. Her boss calls her over and tells her she isn’t working hard enough. Her chair just becomes too unbearable.

Her thoughts swirl like soy milk in tea.

This is it, she thinks. Enough.

She smacks her forehead against the keyboard she’s spent hours and hours of her life pressing and stands up. She considers telling her boss she feels unwell. Doubts rush in. She sits back down. Convinces herself it’s better to finish the day, go home, and book that flight to Fiji.

She’s going to quit this job. Go to a wellness retreat or some shit and sort her mind out.

She says that.

Then she gets home, sits on the couch, tells herself she’s worked hard and deserves it. She eats. She scrolls. She goes to bed. She wakes up and goes back to work again.

Eventually though, in two years time she decides to do a handstand again. It vaguely reminds her of the last time she did handstands. It was the day her work crush went on a date with the French girl. They are now getting married. She pushes that thought away and tries to kick up into a handstand against the wall. She’s terrible at it and nearly pulls her hamstring. But she tries again. And again. The doubt rolls in slowly like fog. But she tells herself one more. One more and then she can go slithering back to her screen.

She does another one. This time, she’s able to balance for a second longer. It makes her smile. She does it again. And again. And she doesn’t stop because of the doubts this time. She stops because she simply doesn’t want to do another one.