The battle.

Chronic insomnia has plauged me for many years. Stupidly, I get on my phone for hours on end when I lay down, which I'm sure adds fuel to my sleepless flame. Dumb. The upside to this is always feeling creative and inspired to write. As I lay here next to my snoring boyfriend and as my cats scury around, I am compelled to write. As much as I strive to be humble, it occurred to me tonight that my life has not been easy.

I'd rather not go into all the sappy details, for some of them are difficult for me to even talk about. The truth is I am exhausted, my energy is depleted. I told myself I could be strong, that I must be strong for myself, my family, my friends. I put a good game face on, denying the severity of the matter at hand. I'm really good at faking it. For a while, I think I had myself, and everyone else, convinced. In a sense, I'm one of strongest people ever. I try brave on once in a while and sometimes it fits me like a glove. The fact is- I'm not always strong. For far too long now, I've denied my pain and my strife. Attempting to avoid the agony I've known over the years and the brutality I've encountered has pushed me to the limit mentally, emotionally and physically. I'm completely spent. My soul is broken. 

I can't explain it. It's virtually impossible and tragically with that comes a level of estrangement that makes it seen that much more bleak. The thing is, I can't and won't feel sorry for myself. That's the prideful habit my father passed along to me. I've done it. I wore it like a dress. When my mother passed away, I milked that crutch of sympathy like a succubus in rapture. How pathetic could I be? It was exponential. I felt everyone should have pity on me because life dealt me a shitty hand. Reflecting back on myself now fills me with shame and regret. I should have been stronger. I should have taken the blow with more grace. There is no right or wrong way to deal with grief. The best way I can describe it is- if someone cut your achilles tendon by surprise. You collapse. Grief buckles you to the ground without warning and most people bellow with intense agony. I bellowed for decades and I licked my wounds so long my scabs turned to infected pulps of embarassment. The sadness I conveyed echos through time like a somber melody I cant forget and I hate myself for it. 

I think once I was around 28 or so I wised up. Yeah, I know thats really old to have a reckoning. However, I'd say having it at 28 is better than being 45 and living in your parents basement, even though it's not far behind in shamefulness. Maybe it was my impending third decade of life that was looming closely in the distance or maybe it was saturns ascension. Who knows. Either way, it was time. The solum sadness I had nursed for decades ran it's course. I was pissed! All the years feeling sorry for myself that accomplished exactly what?! ZERO! Nothing! Not a goddamn thing. What a nightmare! I decided then that I couldn't go on that way and that I had to suck it up and change my sorry ass ways. 

So I did. I stopped with the pity parties. I stopped self loathing because it was just tacky. Fast forward to a little over a year ago when again tragedy struck- I didn't know what the fuck to do. Obviously I was devastated but I desparetly wanted to be strong. I tried. I acted as if. I now see how much I shut off. I pushed all I felt away. It was just too horrible to deal with. I didn't want to feel anything. I just wanted it go away. I felt like I couldn't breathe. Some people probably would have turned to some destructive manner to channel it but I didn't. I tried to drink but it really didn't help. Drugs didn't really do shit. I just tried to forget, as if that was even fathomable. It wasn't and it isn't. 

Here I sit- with a mountain of grief and I feel like I'm at the foot of the gallows, looking upon perhaps the greatest challenge of my life. I feel I haven't really begun to tackle the bulk of it. Sure, I've grieved. I've allowed myself to be consumed with the darkness and let it's ugly truth trickle down. As excrutiatingly painful as it is, somehow I always turn it off. I either get angry with myself for being so weak or it's just too unbearable to feel. I don't know what to do with this hurt I harbor. I feel I'm buried by a burden I am petrified to even speak of. It's frozen in time- a time I replay in my head over and over looking for a solution that would never work. I am lost in the what ifs without dealing with it head on. I ride on the coattails of my own contempt like a melancholy puppet. AlI really know is that this demon has come to battle me and test my will in every way possible. I'm not ready but I will fight.