Trauma 33

Paged through a book on insomnia at the bookstore the other day. I'm basically doing just about everything wrong. No surprises there. The 3-4 unpleasant hours a night that I'm averaging: my fault. Arrest me.

33 today. What have I done. Where has it gone.

Wake up before sunrise each mourning. Contemplate the darkness. The sounds of other people's lives waking up through the thin walls.

Anger. Rage. Frustration. A profound, rolling sadness.

Pinpricks of light in the distance. Some positive buzz from the managers out West. Signs of hope in the next week. I ought to be boosted by this. I am, to an extent. I need my career. Without my career, I've really got nothing. Friends and family are lovely but there is only so much they can do.

I should be hopeful. There's got to be some cosmic balance. My personal life is now a quiet hell, therefore it's okay for my career to really take off. Because I can't have everything. Not at the same time. Something has got to suffer.

Still. It hurts. The punishing thoughts linger. I should forgive myself for all that I've failed, but I can't. Not at this hour. Can't forget, can't forgive, can't find peace. Not today. Not at 33.

Today was supposed to be so much better than it is.