The panic subsides as I spot my foot sticking out from under the covers. More curious than anything at this point, I wiggle myself into a sitting position and throw back the blanket. Everything is still there; two thighs, two knees, some shins, and all ten toes. Poking and pinching results in absolutely nothing, but through sheer will power I can briefly get a couple little piggies active enough to go to market.

This fun little experiment in the failures of my figure turns to dust in the wind when I spot my alarm clock out of the corner of my eye. At this pace, I’m already going to be 15 minutes late for work. Instinct kicks in as I swing my legs out of bed, stand up, and make it one entire step before crumpling to the floor like a discarded draft of a short story.

Knowing it is now possible to walk at least a little, I drag myself back to my bed to use for leverage. Pure will and determination help me force myself back into a standing position. I curse the able-bodied under my breath as though they can help it just as much as I can.

I manage a few steps, wobble like a toddler, than catch myself on my dresser in an awkward sprawl. There is still no feeling, but by essentially swinging my torso and locking my knees once my foot makes contact, I can simulate enough movement to maintain a gait a couple yards at a time.

I skip the shower, tiredly brush my teeth, and throw a hat on to cover the bed head I have no chance at taming considering my circumstances. Breakfast is an orange and two tortillas that are the only tenants of my sad pantry, my fridge being the equivalent of an abandoned apartment building as a neighbor.

Half my brain keeps telling me to call in to work, that this is obviously affecting my ability to be a functioning member of the workforce today. The other half shrugs it off, saying that as long as I’m standing, there’s no reason to not at least try, that there’s bills to pay, and that staying in bed is not a solution to this issue.

The other half fires back with “well what about a doctor” parried by “yeah? With what health insurance?” The non-verbal jousting inside my head rages on as I prop my half-functioning form into the front seat of my car. Oddly enough, I have no issues operating the pedals, as though my legs know what to do. Their activity seems akin to a dog when they see their owner grab a leash and a ball, knowing that they are either going to the park or the vet, and hoping that excitement will lead to the more jovial of the two options. A song comes on the radio, and for a second I almost swear I see one foot tapping along to the beat.

The puppy-dog enthusiasm wears off as I turn into the parking lot of my employment. I manage to steer into a spot just as my legs give out entirely. Unable to operate the clutch, my car sputters to a halt and a quick jerk of the e-brake brings the vehicle to a safe stop.

A deep breath and a sigh precede the opening of my door, the heaving my legs out of the car, and trudging into work. My body and mind are exhausted, the novelty of existing as a barely-functional being wearing off more and more as I near my desk. I question whether or not this is all in my head, if I’m just looking for attention. I blame myself for my ailment, telling myself I should eat better, or exercise more, or get out of the house every once in a while. All of the inner cries for help eventually silenced with “you’re alive, you made it, and you are obligated to keep going.”

I shouldn’t act so surprised. My last memory of feeling my legs is a fleeting one. It smells of a dusty dirt road and tastes like a hot august night. My feet dancing on the pedals, a hand resting on my thigh, and a smile crinkling my face. The last time I remember feeling my legs, or most anything for that matter, is merely a memory from the past, and a faint glimmer of hope for the future.