Gobble, Fucking Gobble.

I guess sometimes my nightmares must consist of things that directly tie into my dwindling sense of motherhood; as, there are mornings when I wake up feeling deeply wounded by this element of my irretrievably haunting visits to the realm of dreamland. This experience, when it happens, is enough to have me in full-blown tears of grief and devastation before my bare feet even touch the cold wood of the floor. There are so many sensations and notions attached to these mornings (thank Gods they are few and far between) that it quickly becomes difficult, if not impossible, to process any of them…they just sit there on the stagnant surface of my consciousness, too blurred and ambiguous to get my head or hands around. I guess today, I am thankful that these nights do not catch me slippin’ all too often…because when they do, I pay for it for a few days afterward.

Happy Turkey Day, y’all.

 

Night Terrorist.

I don’t know,

what it means,

I don’t recall,

too much at all,

all that I know,

upon wakening,

both fists in a ball,

afraid of everything,

the walls feel like,

they breathe on me,

eyes are blurry,

skin is clammy,

a revival of buried things,

from a past most terrifying,

I can’t run or hide,

and I can’t scream,

he’s there searching,

out there lurking,

disfigured and bloody,

undead and muddy,

with a blade that keeps flashing,

at that moment,

another layer of torment,

I am sickened by the scene,

as I know deep down,

with certainty,

that eventually,

he will come find me,

slash his shiny blade,

right through my airway,

and there will be,

at least for me,

no way to escape,

this same old crime scene,

same old tragic psychopathy,

a crimson crown,

trickled down,

my face, but I feel no pain,

and I steadily drain,

terror from my severed veins,

my memories,

washing heavily,

down the gutter again.

 

 

 

Wobble.

Woke up again this way,

my groggy mind,

already confined,

to a maelstrom’s disarray;

and I snarl at the new day,

looking ahead,

I’m unexcited,

by the prospects in my face,

oh, how I hate this place,

not my environment,

but my own sentiment,

a land of spiritual waste,

I can’t easily rinse out the taste,

this kind of day,

gets wasted away,

while I try to kick-start my brain,

a task that is always in vain,

it shakes things up,

it fucks me up,

it makes me feel so helpless again,

and supposedly, I’m on the mend,

this is “progress”,

but I confess,

every day like today does me in.

 

 

Wake-up Call.

I am plagued by “night terrors” in a bad way sometimes; and seemingly at random. Of course, nothing is at random when it comes to the intricacies of the human psyche, however…this, I know. This morning, I awoke with the layer of jello-like sweat from head to toe, the image still singed freshly into my mind, my heart pounding as if it will come right through my aching rib-cage. I look around me in complete confusion and disarray, unsure at first which direction to swing my fists in – so I just swing wildly around me in frustration.

The strange man whom I had just watched slide a knife into my daughter’s head as she screamed bloody murder was nowhere to be found in my room; nor was my daughter of course.

This was at 5:49am and my skin stills crawls; my heart still hurts itself as it thumps against my chest; my mind still searches for someone to receive my wrath and vengeance, someone to protect or rescue.

I fucking hate it.

Scared.

I guess it’s good that I can’t recall the nightmares I have after I awaken from them; they are bad enough to often already have me in tears upon waking for the first time for the day – and I don’t mean like a few little snuffles either – I mean like full-blown

“I’m upset as hell and can’t stop crying and don’t even know why”.

I’m a fucking trainwreck
I’m a fucking headcase
I wake up in the morning and I’m sobbing and scared and the worst part about it is that I can’t even put my finger on WHAT I’m so afraid of or WHO. I just FEEL SCARED.

My Heart Hurts.

ha

“Night Terrors”

Boo suffered Night Terrors since she was old enough to dream, I think…

Even before the attack on her mother – by her father, she always openly dreaded sleeping. She struggled mightily against the act of actually falling asleep since she was a newborn, seriously…she used to do regular face plants into her cereal bowl at night in her high chair at the kitchen table with her father and I. Even as an infant, her sleeping schedule was that of a middle-aged, workaholic adult.

I remember so many frustrating nights with her in her room, trying to lull her to sleep somehow: through traditional bedtime stories, songs, back and/or arm “tickles”, just my quiet presence in the bed beside her little, restless form. I remember how she used to draw invisible things on the wall with her tiny finger in the darkness, in total silence, thinking about Gods know what…I don’t know if Boo still has Night Terrors, but… I would venture to guess her Night Terror has likely evolved into something much more horrible than it ever could have been during her childhood. I wish I knew my Boo at all, anymore…

blueI can say that I now suffer from something similar to the psychological thing known as Night Terrors, as well. Oddly I didn’t experience anything like it throughout my surgeries and hospitalization period – maybe my brain just wasn’t capable of such things back then, who knows? It’s only getting worse as time goes by, too – it’s becoming kind of a problem for me as of late…I can’t really sleep anymore. I just semi-sleep on the tacky surface of this place called Slumber…I ‘dream’ in rapid succession non-stop from the time I sort of fall asleep until I finally “wake up” between 5 and 5:30am in a fucking layer of Jello-sweat and barely able to catch my breath. I usually can’t recall any details of my nightmares …I just know that whatever is happening in my dream-scape is stuff that leaves me feeling terrified and jumpy and paranoid as fuck for the first few hours of every day…no fun. My therapist always defaults everything that I go through during the Holiday Season back onto that factor in itself – especially these days, since I truly and genuinely HATE this season with all of my hollow heart. But I’m just not so sure that he gets me completely, so I continue to doubt his generalized and seemingly lazy opinions of me and my issues.

(They say that’s a red flag symptom of mental illness/instability: second-guessing your shrink like it’s a sport and you’re the Champion) …Fuck ’em….

I do not want to start having to take pills to sleep; I also don’t want to gradually become so delirious from lack of sleep that I lose it, altogether…I don’t want to face the Holidays all over again when I feel like I am still not even recovered from last year’s painful experiences with it…I wish it were different – I used to love the Holidays; I wish I weren’t stuck in this precariously teetering state on the ledge anymore – I wish I could just suck it up and BUST A GRAPE – good, bad, or life-sentence. There is no “better” in the future when it comes to Boo and me; and it hurts like Hell.

Just take it.