A place to sleep

Here I lay again, at 2 AM, wondering what it must feel like to sleep.

I’m kicking myself right now, because I actually thought about renting a motel room yesterday, but I told myself it wasn’t going to be bad. I told myself I was going to be able to sleep. But I lied to myself. Why would tonight be any different from any of the other nights?

I imagine this is what it’s like living in a frat house. I did once say I wanted the experience of a real college life. Maybe this is it. Trying to study when you’ve got no sleep. Writing a paper and struggling to keep your head up. Getting no sleep because of the loud music, random yelling, and nonstop activity throughout the night when normal people would just be sleeping. Like I should be sleeping.

I’m fucked again. Do I go and sleep outside? Can’t. The cops will surely stop me, even though I’d be on my own back porch. I had already taken enough Ativan to knock me out for the night, but clearly that’s not strong enough against my current environment. By the time I get to a hotel and settle in, it would be time to start the day.

So now I just lay here. Awake. Pissed off. Trying my very hardest to suppress my rage, because it is growing so much right now that it scares me. I’m back to level 1 again. I can’t even meet my basic needs. This is not a home for me. This is shelter in the most technical sense of the word, but nothing more than that. I’m not living here. I’m just existing in this space.

It bothers me. I manage to make it through the morning on extra large iced coffees and cigarettes, but even that’s a stretch because I’m not really managing at all. I had two meltdowns this week at work. I spent most of Tuesday at work crying and staving off a panic attack (which I eventually ended up having). Wednesday I got so frustrated trying to do something that wasn’t even that hard, but I’m just 100 hours behind on sleep and my mind can’t function. I look at what’s in front of me and it’s all jumbled up in my head. Can’t think. Can’t do. So I fuck it all up and end up crying. How much longer am I going to keep my job? I would have fired me already.

I have important shit coming up the next two days and I’m not going to have the emotional resources to handle them because I’m running on no sleep and a lot of suppressed emotions. I have an obgyn appointment this morning, which is difficult in itself for reasons I shouldn’t have to explain. But now I am going to go there already a mess, already full of emotions, already drained. How can I cope with what’s going to happen when I’m running on empty? How can I make it through my last therapy appointment this afternoon?

I’m not. It’s going to be a disaster, much in the way my life has been these last few weeks especially. A fucking shitshow disaster.

But that’s what happens, right? I can’t blame anyone for this. I made this choice. And look how great it’s working out for me. I’m in a place I don’t even want to be, looking for somewhere else to sleep that’s not my own bed because sleep is no longer available here. Barely hanging on to a job. Struggling to get through school. Stopping therapy because I’ve become such an emotionally unstable fuck that not even my therapist can help me. I have to start a partial hospitalization program next week, but hell if it will make any difference because no matter how much therapy I sit through and medication they give me, I’m still coming home to the same place every night and having the same issue. 

I thought about finding a man online. It’s quite easy to find ads on Craigslist for places to stay in exchange for other things (non-monetary). I don’t care what they do to me, as long as they let me sleep. I don’t care anymore at all. I’m already ruined. They’re not going to take anything from me that I’ve already lost. And I’ll get to sleep. So how is it any worse than the life I’m living now? 

I have a recurring daydream in which the house is burning down, but I don’t run out of it. I stay locked in my room, laying in my bed, waiting to burn down with the rest of the house. Because I have given up. I’m too tired to fight. Literally, physically and emotionally too tired for this.

But hey, I’ve got a place to live, right? How about a place to sleep?

Come back to me, sleep.

I’ve been out of it the last few days. I’ve been able to function (somehow) on very little sleep.

I had a weird experience Monday night. I don’t really know if it was a nightmare, or a flashback, or something else. I don’t remember many details about it; I have a feeling I blocked it out of my mind. I do remember being confused between what I was seeing and where I was in the moment.

I remember someone coming through my door. This was the moment I “woke up” and was stuck between the vision and reality. I felt like I was actually there in my mind, yet consciously aware that I was actually not there at all, if that makes any sense. When I saw someone coming through my door, I told myself that was impossible because I had locked my bedroom door and no one could get in.

Then I felt everything shaking. I thought my room was shaking. Is this an earthquake? Is there a truck outside? What is happening? Then I looked at my hands and realized that I was the one shaking. My whole body had been trembling.

I looked at the clock. I checked my phone for the date. I tried to remind myself that I was safe. Eventually, the shaking stopped, but that was the end of my sleep. I stayed in bed the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, trying not to jump at every little noise.

I got up and went to work, and somehow made it through the day. I fought through the exhaustion. As I rode the bus home, I felt myself wanting to just go to sleep right there. I told myself I would try to go to bed early. Even though I had some tasks that needed to be done, I couldn’t do them successfully on such little sleep.

By 6 o’clock, I was in bed. I was so exhausted, I could barely keep my eyes open. I thought for sure I would easily fall asleep. But I didn’t. Hours and hours flew by. I could not get myself to sleep. I felt constantly on edge, jumping at every little noise outside, wanting to hide at every noise inside.

I sat in my closet, hoping I would feel safe enough to fall asleep there. That didn’t work. Nothing worked. I think I was afraid to go back to sleep for a reason, something connected to what I experienced the night before.

Two days now, I was running on empty. I filled up with coffee and sugar, hoping the rush would be enough to get me through the long day. I couldn’t wait to get home and just melt into bed. I got home, settled down, and tried once again to go sleep. A few hours went by before I finally nodded off. And then I woke up an hour later. I calmed myself back into sleep and woke up after an hour (again).

This cycle continued throughout the night, and I never got more than an hour of sleep at a time. But at least I got sleep. It was something.

I’m still feeling the effects. I’m still exhausted. I have a lot to write about, but no energy to write. I am hoping tonight will be better for me.

I remind myself I am safe dozens of times in hopes that it will just sink in. It hasn’t yet.

Dreams

I had my first series of dreams last night.

It’s funny because ever since I started taking Prazosin for nightmares and sleep disturbances, I haven’t even had any dreams.  I brought it up to my therapist a couple of weeks ago.  I sort of missed having dreams.  While I appreciate not having nightmares, dreams had provided a nice escape…a break up of the monotony of sleep.  I actually contemplated writing a blog post about it a few days ago, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

I will say, my sleep the past week or so has been increasingly worse.  While I’m not having nightmares (that I can recall, at least), my startle response is extremely heightened.  I wake up at every little noise.  I wake up every time the cat meows.  Sometimes I wake up and I don’t even know why.  Then it takes what seems like forever to get back to sleep before I’m startled again.  I’m not sure if my PTSD is just getting worse or the medication is not working as efficiently.  I know the psychiatrist in the hospital told me both medications (Prazosin and Topamax) have to be slowly increased because they stop working.  I didn’t expect that to happen in less than two months.  I’ve been horrible at getting in contact with the social worker to get an appointment with the psychiatrist scheduled.  I really need to work on that since I’m out of refills after this month.

I can’t remember all of the details of my dreams now that I’ve been awake and about. But I remember deciphering that the meaning had a lot to do with me undertaking the blogging job and speaking out against my mother.  I got the impression from my dreams that this was something I was meant to do.  I’ve probably been reading too much Carl Jung in my free time.  Here I am analyzing my own dreams, now.  Lord, help me.  If only I could be my own therapist.