I remember the smell of the radiator and the pine needles—that dry, dusty heat you only get in old houses in December. I was sixteen. My parents were sitting on the edge of the sofa, their knees practically touching mine, and they looked so TIRED. My father had been working double shifts at the mill, and my mother was taking in sewing on top of her regular hours. I knew what that guitar cost. I knew it down to the penny because I’d walked past the window of Miller’s Music every single day, every day, for six months. I had begged for it. I had made it the center of my entire universe, thinking if I just had that Gibson, the world would finally open up. I started tearing the paper—red and gold foil that felt too expensive to rip—and I could feel their eyes on me. Expectant. That’s the only word for it. They were leaning forward, hungry for a reaction. They needed me to be the "happy child" to justify the sacrifices they’d made. They needed the payoff. I saw the wood first, that beautiful sunburst finish, and then the chrome hardware. It was exactly what I’d asked for. Exactly. But as the paper fell away, something else happened inside me. A sudden, heavy, flat sensation. A total emotional blunting. I looked at that beautiful instrument and felt... nothing. Just a cold, gray vacuum where the excitement was supposed to be. I think the clinical term is anhedonia—the inability to feel pleasure from something that should be rewarding. It was like a shutter had clicked shut in my brain. reasons I couldn't breathe in that moment: 1. the weight of the guitar felt like lead on my lap 2. my mother's hands were trembling with anticipation 3. I realized I didn't actually want to play it—I just wanted to be someone who *could* feel things 4. the room was too small, too hot, too full of their hope 5. the sheer cost of the lie I was about to tell I looked up and I smiled. I forced my eyes to go wide and I let out a little gasp that sounded like a tea kettle. "Oh my god," I said. "It's perfect." I hugged them both, but my body felt like a mannequin. I was performing a role. I’ve been performing roles ever since—working these freelance gigs, these "opportunities" with no security, no benefits, just the next job, the next job, the next job. Smiling at clients when I’m wondering if I can afford the heating bill this month. Every month, every single month, the same performance. I tried to play it that afternoon. I sat on my bed and struck a C-major chord, and the sound was bright and rich, but it didn't reach me. It just bounced off my skin. I felt like a fraud. A total, absolute fraud. I looked at the callouses starting to form on my fingers and all I could see was the exhaustion in my father’s face. He’d traded his sleep for a piece of wood I didn't even want anymore. It’s been sixty years and I can still feel that flatness. It’s a chronic condition, I suppose. I look back at that girl and I want to tell her it’s okay to be empty, but I know it isn't. Not when people are starving themselves to feed your dreams. You have to eat the dream, even if it tastes like ash. You have to swallow it down and say thank you. I’m 76 now and I’m still hustling for rent. No pension, no safety net, just the digital pings on my phone at 2 AM. Every night, every night, I think about that Gibson. I eventually sold it in the seventies to pay for a car repair I couldn't afford. I didn't feel sad when I let it go. I felt relieved. Like I was finally getting rid of a debt I could never satisfy. I wonder if they knew. My mother, she was sharp—she noticed everything. Maybe she saw the way my smile didn't reach my eyes. Maybe she felt the same flatness in her own life, working those extra hours for a daughter who couldn't even feel the joy she was bought. We were all just actors in a very expensive, very quiet tragedy. I’m still tired. Every day, every single day, I’m just so tired...