I’m sitting here in the dark, waiting for another batch of data entry tasks to populate—if I finish another fifty entries tonight I might be able to afford the good cat food this week. It’s not a big deal but I feel a sudden, sharp ache for a version of myself that’s been dead for sixty years. I was sixteen, living in that drafty house in Ohio, and a laundry soap commercial came on the television. It featured a woman—perfectly coiffed, of course—pressing a warm towel to her face while her children played in the background. It was a picture of domestic tranquility that felt so distant from my own reality that it triggered a total *emotional dysregulation*. My brothers, Arthur and Leo, were sprawled on the sofa, feet stinking up the room, throwing popcorn at each other. They were typical for their age, full of that high-octane masculine energy that leaves no room for anything soft. When the music in the commercial swelled—that specific, saccharine orchestral hum—I felt a lump in my throat that felt like swallowing a stone. It was a physical manifestation of a *depressive episode*, though we didn't have the nomenclature for it back then. I just knew that the sight of that clean, folded laundry made me feel like the world was ending. I started sobbing. Not just a quiet tear, but a full, convulsive *somatic response* to thirty seconds of marketing. I couldn’t stop it. 1. My chest felt like it was being compressed by a vice. 2. My eyes were stinging from the sudden rush of salt. 3. I felt an intense, irrational envy for a woman who didn't even exist. 4. I felt a profound sense of *alienation* from my own family. Leo looked over and started hooting, pointing his greasy finger at me while Arthur joined in, calling me "the waterworks" and "mental." Their laughter was loud and jagged, cutting through the living room like a serrated knife. They didn't understand that I wasn't crying because of the soap; I was crying because of the *stasis* of my life, the crushing realization that I would spend my years trying to recreate a domestic peace that was always just out of reach. I felt humiliated, huddled in the armchair, trying to hide my face behind a tattered copy of a library book. It was a total loss of *emotional equilibrium*. They mocked me for hours, bringing it up at dinner, telling Dad that I was "leaking" again. Now, I sit here at seventy-six, still working these little ghost-jobs, still chasing a paycheck that doesn't have a pension or a health plan attached to it. The *precariousness* of my current situation feels very much like that night on the armchair. I am still that girl, waiting for a comfort that doesn't exist. I have no benefits, no spouse left, just a flickering monitor and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Sometimes I see a commercial on my laptop and I feel that same tightening in my sternum—a phantom limb of a grief I never properly addressed. I wonder what happened to that specific brand of soap. I can still smell the artificial lavender and the ozone of the old cathode-ray tube TV. It’s a sensory loop I can’t escape. — The way the light hit the dust motes in the living room. — The sound of Leo’s snorting laugh. — The itchy wool of my skirt against my knees. — The crushing weight of being perceived as "unstable" by the people who were supposed to protect me. Leo died ten years ago, and Arthur doesn't call me because he says I’m "too much to handle" now. I suppose I still exhibit those same *hyper-reactive* traits. People want you to be a certain way—stoic, productive, silent. They don't want to see the cracks in the foundation. This is all so trivial, really, just a memory of a girl crying over a box of Tide or whatever it was. But the shame of that laughter... it lives in the marrow. It makes me wonder if I ever really grew up at all, or if I’m just an old woman playing a role while the girl inside is still hiding her face from her brothers. I have three more hours of work before I can sleep. The screen is starting to blur. I’m thinking about that towel in the commercial, how soft it looked. I haven't bought new towels in fifteen years. The ones I have are thin and gray, like my hair. I should probably get back to work; the queue won't wait and the rent won't pay itself. I’m just tired. Just a bit of *situational melancholy*, I suppose. That’s what they’d call it now. Back then, it was just being a "silly girl." I don't know which is worse.