I’m only writing this because it feels so inspired by incessant insomnia these days. I didn’t sleep last night at all. I honestly don’t know how long I’ve been awake, all I know is that it’s been longer than a day. And it reminds me of some time ago.
In 2012, I found myself couch surfing on a friends couch after moving out of my parents house. I tried to make things work at my parents house, but I wasn’t really able to. After my dad had found out what happened to me, he was extremely upset, in my face and yelling. I know that he had done it because he was sad but it was already such a hard time for me that I just couldn’t take it. So, I moved out. And that’s when the insomnia I guess got really bad.
I was sleeping on their couch, well I was supposed to be, but not much sleeping happened. I’d say goodnight to them, and then I’d find myself scrolling on Tumblr for hours, til the sun came up. I’d see poems that I could relate to, or I’d write about what happened over and over because I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I felt guilty for moving out of my parents house. I had my fish Jimmy with me, and a few bags of clothes. That was it. This was a really hard time for me. I missed my parents. I felt like my world was falling apart. I was having nightmares and feeling so deeply depressed some days I couldn’t move. And I wasn’t sleeping.
Even as I’m writing this, I’m reminded of the immense grief I felt at the time and how lonely everything felt. No one really knew what to do with me. I didn’t know what to do with me. I have been feeling that way again recently. I’ve been afraid that I’d go back to how I was before. Back to this version of me, the 2012 version of me, if I let myself feel everything that hurt so much. How can I even be sure I’m not that person anymore?
Last week my psychiatrist was concerned about how I was doing. It was a 3 month follow up, and I explained to her that I hadn’t been sleeping, and it was getting to me. I told her I had a fleeting thought here or there, but nothing really out of the ordinary. That concerned her to the point of asking me if I was safe. Of course I said was, because in all honesty, I really am. I don’t think I’m ever going to return to the point of wanting to kill myself, even though I really want to some days. But I just know the grief that death leaves behind and I can’t leave people I love in that, carrying that. But I don’t feel right. I don’t feel like me. I sh for the first time in maybe a year or 2 this week. It hurts, but it also feels good, feeling like I can release some momentary heartache without inflicting heartache on the ones I love.
I’m not really sure how to get through this life. I always joke with my friends saying that I don’t plan on living more than 10 more years. That I don’t want to do that. It’s kind of a joke but it’s also serious. Because how can someone be my age and be so tired already? How can someone have experienced this much life and still have some will power to move forward. I’m not a victim. I’m not a survivor. I’m just really fucking tired. Too tired to be mad at the people who hurt me, too tired to envision a life with these memories. Everyone says you can move on from the pain. I don’t know if you can, at least, I don’t know if I can. I need to not remember. I need to completely forget, have my memories wiped. My brain healed. I need a fresh start. Somehow.
a diary 