It is 12:04 AM.
I am sitting here in my family room and I am tired.
Not ordinary “yawn” tired.
I am tired of my feelings.
I am tired of my anxiety.
I am tired of being sad.
Not only am I tired of being sad, I am exhausted.
I hate myself for staying up so late when I tell myself “earlier to bed tomorrow”.
I hate myself for not holding myself to higher standards.
I hate myself for over-eating.
I hate myself for not being who I want to be…
And now, it is 12:07 AM, and my paranoia strikes.
What was that sound? Is there someone at the window? Am I going to die?
My heart starts racing, my typing gets faster, more frantic.
I start to get nervous and my anxiety kicks in.
But wait, the doors are all locked.
This is just another night.
I better check, just in case.
I get up, I check the door, barely opening the curtain, careful in case there is a face peering back in at me.
I keep telling myself “it’s only your imagination”.
I think of that Dateline episode.
The one where a killer went to a complete stranger’s house and killed their whole family.
I have been scarred ever since.
Once he goes to bed, the demons come out and start haunting me.
12:10 AM. My heart rate slows.
I suddenly need to get up. I slowly walk through the house, phone on highest brightness, to do whatever I need to do.
I walk into the bathroom and look into the mirror.
I see the devil staring back at me, critiquing every little detail.
I stare myself straight in the eyes.
I look pale, I look fear stricken, I look disappointed.
Disappointed in myself.
Disappointed that I’ve let myself get this far.
What is wrong with me?
I look back. 12:16 AM.
I am finally calm enough to go to bed.
As long as I have my stuffed bear tightly under my arm and 6 layers of blankets on top of me and pulled to my nose, I feel safe.
Hopefully the fear doesn’t eat me alive.