Too Heavy to Hold

In this monologue from the play, “Too Heavy To Hold”, Claire, a young woman sits slouched on a couch, knees pulled up, a half-empty drink in her hand. The remnants of the night’s party buzz around her—music muffled, laughter distant. She stares at nothing in particular as she speaks.

You ever get so tired that even breathing feels like work? Like, you wake up, and there’s this immediate, suffocating weight of— Oh, God. This again? And then people—people who mean well, I guess—hit you with the whole, “Oh, you should journal, you should go for a walk, you should manifest a positive mindset.”

Right. Like, I can’t even remember to drink water half the time, but yeah, let me just reprogram my entire existence. No problem.

(She exhales, running a hand through her hair, voice softening.)

I don’t know, man. It’s just… everything used to feel big, you know? Like, I’d wake up and the way the sun hit my window would mean something. A song could crack open my chest. I used to laugh so hard with you I’d think I was gonna choke—like, really laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt.

(Beat. Her gaze drops to her hands, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.)

And now… it’s like I’m watching my own life happen from a distance. Like I’m not in it, I’m just—adjacent to it. I see the moments where I should be happy, should be excited, should be feeling something—but it’s all just… distant. Muted.

(She blinks hard, then sniffs, forcing a smirk as if shaking it off.)

But hey, whatever, right? Let’s get drunk, blast some trashy pop music, pretend none of this is real for a few more hours. It’s what we do best.

(She raises her glass in a mock toast, but there’s no real enthusiasm behind it. Just the weight of someone trying to outrun their own mind.)

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