It’s just after 9 PM. Three hours before my average bedtime. Last night I was unable to fall asleep until 4 AM. Was it the heat or the two cups of coffee I drank or the fact that I slept for 33 hours this weekend or my anxiety? I don’t know which. I’m glad I don’t take ten different pills any longer. Trazodone just makes a person soo sluggish.
The evenings are dreadful for me. Is it because I have nothing to do? Nothing that motivates me, at least. It was difficult going to school at night after work, but at least that provided me with some structure. Now it’s summer and I keep telling myself I’m supposed to be studying for this big exam, and there is but a faint spark of interest in doing the latter work. I am in my head in the evenings. I spend a lot of time thinking. I don’t pay attention to the self-talk I create, yet it must be there. Eating, feeding myself is therapeutic. I cooked cheesy gnocchi from a frozen pack on the stove. Listening to the tiny bubbles in the sauce come to the surface like the pitter-patter of rain on a window. Doing normal things helps me. Yes, I dressed in gym clothes when I got home from work, instead of into pajamas, because I thought I might be motivated to walk on the elliptical machine, but no, I’m putting that off for later in the week.
Can I just be frank here? Can I just say that it pisses me off that some family members know what I’m going through and aren’t supportive? I’m talking about one family member in particular. I thought she would have been more supportive, but I was wrong. What did I ever do to her? This is my white American aunt, who married into our Indian side of the family. She and her husband even supported me financially ten years ago for a year of my college. I guess she can’t do the emotional stuff?? I’m so angry that I just want to delete her text messages. Her advice to me of “try to find a club or volunteer group” seems like normal advice but I take insult to it. She has no idea what I go through every day, just to make it to the next day. She doesn’t know that I suffer in silence on weekends when I can’t get up out of bed, and when I don’t want to live. That advice was given to me after I exposed myself entirely, by telling her that I told the DDA about my abuse story. Her only other reaction? “Oh.” It was a monosyllabic response. The monstrosity of the fact that I will not get justice and that my abuser will not spend one day in jail, gets an “oh”.
On to happier things. My roommate is home and is playing at being a homemaker, as I do sometimes too. She bought a huge watermelon and cut it up and told me to “not be shy” so that I can have as much as I want. The only downside to this is that her sharp knife set finally arrived today. They come in all shapes and sizes, and they are very sharp. “Why would that bother you?” my therapist would say. “Because I might want to cut myself,” I reply after a long hesitation about whether to reveal the truth, even though he knows that’s where I’m going and he knows I need to say it out loud. “You don’t do that any longer,” he would say, “so why would that be an issue?”
All of a sudden it’s 10 PM. My brother called and we talked for over half an hour. He calls me during his long commute time in the car coming home at night. We talked about my weekend of hibernation, and about how I’ve been doing that for the last year and a half, and that it has become more of a “habit” and that habits are harder to break as we get older. He said if I do anything, even watch YouTube videos, rather than sleeping, even if I’m not studying, is better than sleeping. If I find friends, meet a man, or want to do anything, those things usually happen on the weekends and I am confined like a prisoner to my bed. It’s as if I don’t have the courage to get out of bed and face the day when I don’t have to be at work. To be honest, I don’t know how I have actually functioned for almost a year, barely calling in sick. I actually get up in the mornings and make it to work. Work is another issue I’m having with myself. I’m terribly behind in all of my tasks and the weight of the load at work is just weighing on me like a bag of bricks.
I have all of these issues! But, there are things to be grateful for. I’m now aware of myself and my body. I don’t have to let people use or abuse me. I’m learning how to make my life a life that is worth living. I’m not there yet and I still occasionally wish “I weren’t here” (on this earth, meaning, alive). With that mindset every day seems oppressive. My emotions fluctuate and I have to learn to bend with them. Some hours of the day I will feel fine, and then all of a sudden I’ll be struggling, making it hour by hour through the day.
I’m seeing my therapist tomorrow. That’s always a saving grace. Because when I’m with him, I feel alive, more than any hour of the week, I feel alive for the 50 minutes that I’m with him, once a week. He has taught me how to live in a meaningful way. There’s still a lot I have to work on, but I get through my life from one week to the next with him as the marker, the highlight, of my time here on earth.
Shoulders slumped, head cocked to the side, listening to my upstairs neighbour pace across the creaky floorboards. Not feeling okay, not feeling like myself. Feeling as if this evening was surreal, somewhat disconnected, despite my attempts to connect by doing everyday things like feeding myself. I’m so lucky I don’t have to shower tonight because I showered yesterday. I still struggle to find showering a pleasurable activity. It’s worse than a chore and I’d rather not do it at all.
Pick myself up from focusing on negative things. On the outskirts of my mind, and somewhere tucked deep within, there has to be a reason for all of this. There has to be hope.