Micro-decisions.

Death by a thousand thousand papercuts.

How to describe? Jenga, except the blocks are sticks of dynamite. Is it selfish ambition that makes my every move matter so much that I can’t choose? That makes each movement potential disaster? Because I’ve made it all about me?

Not afraid to fall apart. What, then?

It’s this. I don’t want to blow up while I crumble. Then it’s game over. No rebuilding while laughing off the intensity of that failed attempt.

Choosing my clothing. Deciding what to eat. Deciding which shoes, which jacket. Which phone call? Which text? Which email? Which unopened piece of mail? Which neglected relationship? Which tedious task that keeps my ship from sinking?

And I’m sinking, sinking into static. Roaring static that begs me to choose something. Anything.

I blithely grab at a shirt. No. So many reasons, no.

No time for this. Just choose a top and a bottom.

A memory. I wore this shirt with those pants one time, and it worked.

But that day was sunny. This one is clouded over, muddled as the options before me.

Another memory. I used to have all my outfits pre-made, rolled up together like a salad wrap for on-the-go Healthies.

What happened?

A bunch of other decisions, and now my clothes languish in collapsible cubes instead of drawers.

I was going to choose a new dresser.

A dresser! Like, a person who dresses you? A-ha!

I need that person at my side who makes the decisions. A Downton Abbey servant.

What would she choose?

Not this.

I fold. Pull on another round of bendy clothes: an athletic look mixed with all-purpose materials that move with my whims. The safety net for Indecisives like me.

I can now do anything I want to.

So I sit down and Wordle while I wait for my meds to kick in. Maybe they’ll smooth me out.

Ever-narrowing options, how I love you. Five letters. The four-letter words can wait. [I always know which one of them to choose.]

Deadline-driven because I jettison extra options fluidly in a pinch.

Never prepared. Always late. Can’t start. Can’t stop.

Except Wednesdays.

Wednesdays at the temple. Everything spelled out. Time. Place. Attire. Ritual right down to my favorite locker in the changing room. Not OCD. Life goes on when that one is already taken. I find today’s favorite, instead.

Life goes on.

I go on.

Such peace in knowing one choice makes a thousand others for me.

I am here.

I am here.

I

am

here