I try to claw my way back to normal through routine. It is a conscious decision, not instinctive, and that alone tells me how far things have shifted, because routine used to be where my body settled without asking permission. Now it feels like something I have to reach for, grasp deliberately, and hold onto with both hands. I start with laundry, because it is simple and physical and familiar, and because folded fabric does not watch me back.
I carry the basket down the corridor and into the side room that smells faintly of soap and clean water, and I set it down carefully, slower than necessary, already aware of how much attention I am giving to small movements. I sort by size and type, smoothing each piece before folding it, running my hands over the fabric until the edges line up clean
