The Night is Loud

25 Apr

Apparently, I wrote this as a draft in early December this past year.  I don’t remember writing it, but I sure as hell remember feeling this way. 


I am alone around others. Not all of the time; just some of it. And I try to curl into myself, but I can never get away from the tepid loneliness that I carry with me.  It is in my intestinal lining, slowly eating away like the acid in my stomach does to food.  What does it eat, though?  My self-worth and esteem; my feeling of connectedness to my family and friends; my desire to continue being vulnerable and work toward mental health.

At the end of the day, I’m done.  I am overwhelmed by the overstimulation that comes with parenting small children.  I wonder if I can even call it “parenting”; maybe “surviving” would be a better description. I wonder what my blood pressure looks like around 5pm each day?  Maybe it all just evens out, in the end, after not being able to feed myself lunch until nearly dinner time and my racing pulse from listening to two small boys scream and dance and stomp and run and cry and sing at the top of their lungs.

Maybe it’s time to quit.  But it also isn’t. This is a job, a project, a lifestyle I’m unable to walk out on. But I don’t feel real today.  I don’t feel happy today.  I feel sad and alone. I feel guilt for feeling sad and alone when there’s so many people who love me and care for me and want me around. But I also don’t believe that’s true tonight. Who wants you, I say to myself.  Who needs you?  Who would care if you weren’t there tomorrow? I know who, but they just seem to be erased from my memory right now.

And now I’m smoking.  Not just on the weekends and not just one a day, like I used to do.  I smoke several (usually no more than 4 or I start to feel manic) times a day.  Mostly at night; mostly outside; sometimes hanging out of the bathroom window with the door locked, fan on, and all cloth things removed from the room with a towel pressed at the bottom seam of the door. I get a lot of shit about it, too, from those who know about my new iniquity, my newest sin.  I just don’t care.  I just want to smoke.  I just want to be in control of something and, for now, this is it.

For a while I thought I couldn’t possibly workout and be a smoker; but I’m doing them both because I won’t give up the smoking right now, and I need to exercise to keep healthy in other ways.  I try to drink tea, but God knows that is not the same as nicotine.

I feel like I’m trying a lot; and I’m tired of all the work I have to put in to simply remain on even keel.  I’m tired of the pills already, although they seem to be helping.  I’m tired of trying to stick to a morning and evening routine, of going to bed at the same time and waking up at the same time each day.  I hate routine; I feel constrained by schedules and simply want to be free.  I wouldn’t even know what to do if I was free, though. I’d be overwhelmed and afraid, probably.  Just like I am now.  So I suppose there’s not good reason to want to be “free”; it’d just be more of the same.


Ps: I’ve stopped smoking. Mostly.


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