she is at her weakest right after a workout. when her clothes are stripped to a soggy pile on the bathroom floor, and simple tasks like walking and sitting become reminiscent of painful physical therapy exercises. when the hot water runs over her sweat-drenched body and dulls the pain from lactic acid build-up, the memories come rushing back. her sobs are drowned out by the gallons streaming from the shower head, and her tears are lost amongst the rest of the water pouring over her. she is weak. not from the grueling work out, but from the stillness that accompanies solitude. it brings her to her knees in the slippery, ceramic tub. her body shakes with each hiccup, each sniffle, each gasp for air. it’s as though nothing can be made whole again, and all that she’s known for the last year and a half is being washed away.