Not Enough Sleep again

I think this is part of the pattern.  The pattern of not remembering.  The pattern of keeping history down in it’s grave.  The lack of sleep.  It is an inability to relax.  My mind stands vigilant guard and I feel certain – CERTAIN – I have typed this before.  My thoughts are disconnected.  They do not roam or meander, they hop from one to the next, like searching through a library of books on any given subject seeking an answer to something yet … trailing of half way through a sentence uncertain of what I am looking for, certain it is not here.

I am so tired.  I want nothing more than to sleep.  But sleep will not arrive until at least 130am.  Maybe later.  Maybe I will wake every 2 hours.  Hot flashes, the inside of my body hot, my skin cold.  My mind instantly awake and on alert.

A monster is coming.

Memories rise from the bottom of a pond like dank bubbles of gas that burst with a burp and release their cloud of awful.  I attempt to tread this soup of shame, pain, frustration, bordering on drowning, so focused on keeping my head above water I haven’t the breath to cry for help.

I know it is there. A memory.  It is being pulled by the work stress I have had – completely unrelated and yet tainted by the experience of a person unformed.

I have been turning my back on you, survivor.  I do not not want to be associated with your groping for air, your struggle, your fight.  I do not want to be surviving anymore.  I want to be done.  So done.  So 10 million life times done.

I see the pattern.  I see how the sleep deprivation is likely a part of it.  I see the obvious; the compulsive eating, the recurring thoughts of drug use, the listlessness, the distractedness, the pounce on anything happy and pleasant and the cold undercurrent of dark history.  And I am coming to see the less obvious; the disconnection, the distraction, the obsession.

Sleep is surrender.  Sleep is vulnerable.  I once said to my mother, when she tried to give my night light to my brother, “no I need it, it helps me sleep.  I was molested in the dark by my father.”  At the time I said it I just wanted to be in control and I knew it would give me leverage.  Not sleeping, somehow, is leverage.  I my mind is so deprived and exhausted, it can’t possible dredge up the past.  If I can not trust myself, then I don’t have to believe anything I say.  If I am crazy with lack of sleep, I will probably just say anything anyway.

I just want to sleep.

I just want to be normal.

I just want to be an average person with an average past free from the intrusion of tear stained memory.

But mostly, I just want to sleep.

*****************************************************

Post Script.

I realized just now how angry I am.  Just for a split second and then gone.  I am angry.  I am pissed off that this shit isn’t done.  Im enraged that I am not healed yet, that I am taking so fucking long, that I have to keep remembering all these broken pieces of my heart.  Why can’t they just stay dead and in the dust?  What’s the point?  I don’t want it.  I just don’t want it anymore.

No one told me choosing to heal was something I had to do every day.  When I wrote about step one… I wrote with this fantasy in mind that I was so over step one.  That I would never be grovelling on its plateau again, head hung, choosing between numbness and full spectrum existence.  No one told me it would be this bad or take this long, that it would feel basically the same the whole fucking way through.

I dont want it anymore.

i just fucking don’t.

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