There’s not enough melatonin, or seroquel, or wine on this planet to silence the white noise that blares in my head on a nightly basis. I would want nothing more than to know what it feels like to lay in my bed and drift off into a peaceful sleep without the sledgehammer of sleep aids.
I stopped writing again. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I grow weary of hearing my thoughts echo as I write them out. Sometimes I feel like no one is listening. What I do know is not writing…not “journaling”…not “expressing” myself…whatever…means no sleep. Swallowing all these words leaves a perpetual lump in my throat.
Honestly, I prefer not to have my thoughts, feelings, and fears etched into the stone that is the internet, but I don’t feel like I can directly express myself to the people I hold dear. So writing here allows me to speak, and allows them to “hear” without being directly responsible for my feelings. WIn-win, no?
My job is overwhelming. Abuse, domestic violence, abject poverty, struggle, neglect, hopelessness, mental illness, rape, homelessness, disease…until I feel like I can’t absorb much more…until the end of my shift draws near. Then I turn to face the struggles of some of my closest friends and family. And I find myself lacking the empathy and sensitivity they absolutely need and deserve. I battle with grasping the art of companionship because the career path I’ve chosen is brutal and unforgiving. I’m genuinely sorry I can’t be what is needed.
Tomorrow, I wish to remain under my big down comforter. Protected from responsibilities, expectations, and bills.