Insomniac’s Log Star Date 8130.3

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I suppose all good people are resting peacefully and here I am again awake. The sky is so cloudy it isn’t even worth trying to sit outside, there are no stars to see but there are a few familiar night noises. I wander through my house too weary to enjoy the solitude. Walking through the dark I wish it could just envelope me, take me away, and afford me a reprieve. I suppose there really is no rest for the wicked, being unsure of my wrong is a heavy burden to bear.

I am tired of being exhausted. My sleep patterns have shifted so I see the middle of the night irrelevant of whether I go to bed at 8 or 11pm  and even if I take the meds I have been given they only work for a small while. My poor diluted mind keeps thinking this is the last night….tomorrow will be different. If I do by some grace I find some sleep, like the past five nights I have been startled awake to only remember snippets of a dream I wish I had not. In the last few therapy sessions she keeps visiting the PTSD diagnosis and want to talk about how it is impacting my life, clearly this is obvious as I stand here on the porch wishing I could trade a piece of my soul for a few hours of  peaceful rest.

I am unsure of how much longer I can exist in this manner. Every morning I make a list of what I need to do that day, think of the needs of my children, what I can do for the others in my life and try to push through, making sure I meet all the obligations, trying to leave the world a bit better then I left it. The exhaustion contributes to a vicious cycle, I am of kilter when I am tired, that makes me more anxious that contributes to my sleepless night and this it begin again; poor Ouroboros.  I feel as if I carry this façade for I do not want to burden another with this struggle but I so wish I could find the care and kindness I offer, to find an ear like I try to offer, to find an embrace to melt into; I suppose mine to carry alone.

I wonder when I will no longer be able to keep up the charade. When will it all come crumbling down? I want nothing more than to call out mercy, and rumble into a heap.    What happens when I can no longer survive like this? What happens when autopilot no longer work…then what will that disaster look like?

 “I was all for being real but if I don’t believe then no one will.”   – Torres

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