Does anyone else ever feel like they’re actually disappearing? Like, physically fading out while standing in a room full of people? I’m at this mixer right now. Some downtown warehouse with exposed brick and everyone is wearing the same stupid glasses and talking about "deliverables." I’m holding this gin and tonic—it’s warm, it’s basically backwash at this point—and I’m nodding while this guy talks about his new studio space. I’ve spent sixty hours this week staring at a monitor until my eyes bled just so I could pay for *the thing* she needs. The equipment. The stuff that keeps the house from falling apart. Am I the only one who feels like a ghost? I haven’t slept more than four hours at a stretch in three years. Not one night. And here I am, trying to look "creative" and "available" for freelance projects. Available. That’s a laugh. I’m available to change the linens at 3am. I’m available to handle the screaming when the routine gets messed up. I’m available for every single emergency while my brother is off "finding himself" in another city. He sends me photos of his brunch. I’m looking at medical invoices and font kerning. My eyes are vibrating. Before I left tonight, there was an incident. I don't even want to say what it was, just *the situation* went south. Again. I had to clean it up. I had to make sure the person was settled, make sure the other person didn't see, make sure the whole facade stayed up. It was a total mess. And then I put on a blazer. I put on a blazer over a shirt that probably smells like antiseptic and I drove here to talk about "visual language." And this girl, this junior designer who probably hasn't even seen a physical proof in her life, asks me if I’ve seen the new software update. I wanted to scream. I wanted to just open my mouth and let out this absolute *primordial* sound right in her face. Instead, I said, "Yeah, the AI integration is interesting." Interesting. What a pedestrian word. I’m standing there thinking about the way the hallway smells when the meds wear off and she’s talking about generative fill. It’s a total juxtaposition. It’s... it’s ludicrous. Is that the word? It’s insane. I’m living two lives and one of them is eating the other one alive and I'm just standing here clutching a lukewarm lime wedge. It’s the constant being "on." At home, I’m the nurse. I’m the cook. I’m the bank. I’m the person who knows where the "special" spoons are and why we can’t use the blue ones on Tuesdays or everything explodes. Then I come here and I’m supposed to be "The Designer." I have to be sharp. I have to be witty. I have to make eye contact even though I want to close my eyes and never open them again for a decade. My brain is fried. It’s scorched earth up there. DOES ANYONE ELSE JUST WANT TO QUIT? Not the job. Not the "career." Just... the role? The being the only one who does it. If I don't show up, everything stops. The person doesn't eat. The meds don't get administered. The house literally rots. I am the glue and I am so sick of being sticky. I’m tired of being the person everyone relies on while I have absolutely NO ONE. Not a soul. I'm the emergency contact for five different people and I don't even have one myself. I saw a text come through just now while I was trying to talk to a creative director. It was just a series of emojis from the house. That’s how it starts. The escalation. I know what’s waiting for me when I get back. It’s going to be a long night. Longer than the day was. And I’m still standing here, holding this warm glass, pretending I care about "minimalist aesthetics." Aesthetics? My life is a disaster zone. It’s a heap of unwashed laundry and broken promises and files named "FINAL_v6_REALLY_FINAL." I tried to explain the weight of it to my friend once. I used the word *vicissitudes*. She just blinked at me like I was speaking Greek. She told me I should take a bath or something. A bath. Like some bubbles are going to fix the fact that I haven't been a real person since 2019. I’m just a service provider now. A walking, talking utility. A faucet that everyone turns on until it runs dry and then they just bang on the pipes demanding more. I don't even remember what I like to do anymore. Am I the only one who feels this much resentment? Is it just me? I feel like a monster for even thinking it. But standing here, watching these people talk about their "passions," I realized I don't have passions. I have obligations. I have deadlines and I have *the situation* and that’s it. That’s the whole list. I’ve been erased. My name isn't even my name anymore, it’s just "Hey" or "Can you help me with..." followed by some demand for my time or my money or my sanity. I’m going to finish this drink. It’s disgusting. It tastes like copper and failure. Then I’m going to drive home, change back into my "uniform," and deal with whatever happened while I was gone. And I’ll do it tomorrow. And the day after. Because if I don't, who will? Nobody. That’s the answer. Nobody else is coming to help. I’m the end of the line. Is anyone else out there just... done? Like, actually, fundamentally finished? Or is it just me?