Yesterday I unwillingly (no one likes a party pooper) joined my work in attending a baseball game. Do not mistake me, every bit of will was bent toward making a good run of it. Despite my not hatred of sports, understanding of spectacle, and general desire to please people, circumstances beyond my ability to immediately alter insured that I am still exhausted and miserable. It has been days since I have slept more than three hours. Be careful, saying that, some people think it means more than it does. Perhaps there have been times in my life when a person would have been correct about certain assumptions made, but days of continued alertness and an inability to sleep well have plagued me long before I was old enough to think I could ever want to kiss a member of the opposite sex. More to point, much of last night was spent in my being handed swigs of Tang and vodka, in an attempt by a co-worker to increase my volubility. This doesn’t work, for many reasons, but there is only one that I want to share. Much of my life is spent in silence, I am merely an observer of events. This role has led me to make many flaccid yet poorly considered choices, as well, at times, as preventing serious injury to my person from occurring after these actions of poor judgement. That one thing, though, the reason that everyone is always waiting for me to say just one more thing, is that the words left unspoken would, in my mind, confirm a diagnoses most often gifted to me frivolously by associates and close relations alike, despite sever implications. What am I saying? I’m crazy. But only in my head, as long as I never say a thing out loud. The laughable part is that, in reality, the state of my reasoning plays no part in the matter. Am I right to think that just as I am pulling together the loose ends, shedding years of an unhealthy lifestyle, one in which I previously had intended to end my life, and making an effort I imagine to be fruitless in this battered and scarred body to do a thing that is good in the world, that events and people beyond my realm of influence would conspire to drag me down? For the first time in my life, I don’t care if I am right or wrong about the things that keep me awake at night. Insanity is not a failure of reason, it is a failure to subsume your thoughts to another without any factual evidence against them. Whether your IQ is 140 or you become part of the jail system depends on your ability to maintain a logically functioning thought process. Others, professionals, have assessed my ability to think logically and given me the gold star of approval, a B+ at the local community college. Why, then, am I lying on the floor worrying that it is all over? Worrying that tonight was not a coincidence, or a simple event, but a contrivance. A contrivance meant to lull me places I wish with every fiber of my being never to see, experience, or be overwhelmed by again. To those who are listening to what I am saying, this is it. This is my full surrender.
My vow of silence over, not yet at peace
Food for thought: Does choosing not to call your therapist at twelve thirty in the evening because it would be rude and selfish contribute to or detract from the obvious instability of a near paralyzing, back-breaking tingle that says you should be afraid, and on your knees?
“I haven’t slept for seven nights and I’m not tired. Who protects the ones I love when I’m asleep?”