It is strange how I am positioned to help certain people, yet I can't seem to help myself. A fog rolls through my mind and silence falls. There's no way to see past the blue. It drags my eyelids downward because the fog is heavy. It weighs my head down, and I feel slightly poisoned. Thoughts, memories, imagination, all mental capacity crashes downward. It's like free falling without a parachute, except even horror and fear have vanished.
The heaviness moves down the neck and into the shoulders. It spreads slowly at first and begins to pick up speed. I try to walk towards my bed and my legs drag my feet. I do not want to fall. Please Lord, let me make it to the bed.
Awake. It's only 1:00 AM though I am thankful to be alive. Struggle to rise and go brush my teeth. Struggle to unzip and relieve myself. It's a struggle to get undressed and underneath the covers. My body has not recovered from the weight. However I can't sleep now because my mind will not rest. A large army of thoughts and memories are lead by my imagination into a foray against my sleep. They keep circling, repetitive motions, and they are successful in sabotaging any needed recovery time.
I shake my head, throw a pillow over my eyes, and try to focus on prayer. Images of my youth keep appearing, my work day, the bills I owe, the way I could not get a word out in a social situation... awkward and silent. Why couldn't my mind be silent now? Why couldn't it work when I needed it to? I wonder if the weather is going to be nice at the beach? I remember when they released the sea lions and we got to watch. I remember the darkness of my youth, the pain of witnessing suicide attempts by my mother. I recall my step-dad succeeding. Why did I feel abandoned by my friends? Reclusion became my best friend. It's a security blanket to keep people from hurting me. I remember Kirk Gibson hitting that game winning home-run in 1988 with two bum knees. I recall my first few poems, not the actual poems but the moments that they captured.
Why do I write? Why can I not write them anymore? Poetry always held my pain, my silence, my depression, my anguish, my anger... maybe I don't write because they have been gone. Perhaps I found my voice within a different realm. I try to create a poem in my head. Nothing comes but images of my wife. My lovely wife sound asleep next to me. I look at the clock and it's now 3:30AM. My body is sore. My eyes slightly ache. I am exhausted. My wife use to paint. She doesn't anymore. Did we do this to each other? We use to have joy in our creations. What happened? Is this what growing up is?
They say misery loves company... that's furthest from the truth. Misery wants to be left alone, and that's why I treat people like shit. Well, I don't really treat anyone like shit. I just sometimes wish I could.. but I have this morale compass in me that is derived through my Christian faith that it's terrible to treat people like that. I want to be treated well, so I always hope I have a better chance at that by treating other well. I just don't have personality... at least, I don't show it. Uptight, hidden, and I don't want anyone to see the real me. The pure me. The one my wife loves. Everyone else gets a wall made of stone. Why am I still awake. It's 5:00AM and the alarm is going to go off in an hour.
I close my eyes.. BEEP BEEP BEEP… time to wake up and do this all again.
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