Despondent

“Where the heck have you been?” My colleague at work asked when he saw me. He’s one of the few I’m friendly with. We used to grab breakfast at a nearby diner a couple times a week.

“You know,” I said, putting up an energetic front, “living my best life.”

I recently sold my car in order to pay my rent, or risk being evicted. The walk to work takes me twenty-five minutes. Hopefully once I’m in better shape, I can reduce it to as little as twenty.

“Who are all these people?” I asked him as I grabbed a towel from the carefully-folded stack near the drinking fountain and wiped my forehead and neck. My feet were already killing me from the walk.

“New guys. Five this time,” he said.

We watched them roaming the gym floor, looking for members to pitch.

“Scraping the bottom of the barrel,” I said as my client walked up to begin our session.

Another new manager. More trainers competing for limited business. Four of the five will be gone within three months.

One trainer gets all the business. It makes management look good—to have one of the top trainers in the company. Everyone else suffers.

I hardly show up to work anymore.

I’ve been waking up in the mornings with just enough time to walk to work. Sometimes I don’t even brush my teeth first.

Working one-on-one with clients and I’m not even brushing my teeth.

Who cares anymore.

I have so few clients now, nothing seems to matter.

My teaching hours are gone. And the income.

No more mentoring. No more onboarding.

Turning things around is no longer possible. I have no Hail Marys left.

This just feels like the end.

I finished with my client after being more engaged in our conversation than the workout itself.

Training is just—going through the motions at this point. Conversation is the only thing that stimulates me these days.

I’ve never disliked the client work itself. I have hardly any clients left, though.

By the time I walked home, my feet and ankles were sore and inflamed. My body isn’t used to this much activity. Despite being a personal trainer, I haven’t worked out in—I don’t know.

I went back to bed as soon as I got home from my one client. Slept most of the day.

I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Despondent. That feels accurate.

I remember the first time I heard that word. I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe I still don’t.

Years ago—thirteen? Fourteen?—I walked into my manager’s office. She was upset. Crying.

One of our trainers had stopped showing up to work. My manager had reached out, multiple times. Had reached the trainer at one point, and they spoke briefly.

Now, she’d just found out the trainer committed suicide.

“Last time we spoke, he sounded...despondent,” she said, wiping tears.

That was a shocking loss. I think about him often.

But now—that word.

Despondent.

I’m not suicidal. I’m—

I don’t know who I am without something to fix—without something to work toward.