This time of the year....all the late nights, all the thoughts, all the feels. I spend so many nights not sleeping, it’s a problem.
To make up for that, to keep from actually feeling all the feels, I then overbook myself. Let me see how much I can cram into one week. Because at least then I’m busy and I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts. Just me? No one else does this? That’s cool. I’ll admit to it. If I stay busy I don’t have to remember. I don’t have to think about it. I can go on like nothing is really different. Like this time of the year doesn’t leave me feeling raw and exposed and hurting. Because while most feelings are gross, these feelings? They are the grossest of all. I do not like feeling vulnerable and weak and weepy. I’m more of a fuck you kind of girl. I’m happiest dwelling in that.
But the deep dark truth is.....I’m not entirely a fuck you girl. I’m also the girl that can be found wiping tears in the bathroom at work. Tearing up to a song in the car. Needing hugs (gah, I hate admitting when I need a hug. It’s truly the worst.). Wanting someone to tell me it’ll be okay. Even if they have no idea if it will be. So. Much. Icky.
So this time of the year, I really want to curl up in bed for September and October. Because in 2015 my world turned upside down and it hasn’t righted itself yet. If I could just sleep through these two months that would be phenomenal. Instead of wake me up when September ends, wake me up in November.
Which really sucks because I do like fall. The weather. The leaves changing. What feels like a new start. The temperature turning off cool. Snuggly clothes. Soft blankets. Windows open on crisp fall nights before you turn on the heat and snuggle in for winter. It’s not the worst season. Except that one thing....the reminder of what is missing. The memory of what was lost that one fall and will never return.
Maybe at some point I’ll write some of that out. Who knows. I’ve been told writing it all out just for me would be therapeutic and then maybe I wouldn’t relive it each year. One part of me wants to relive it so I don’t forget. That’s probably twisted and I’m sure in time (and therapy) that will get sorted. The other part of me does not want to write because that makes it far too real and at least for now I can have some level of denial. Also probably something to get sorted in therapy.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to push myself beyond what maybe I should. Not sleep just like five years ago. Walk around in a semi zombie state. Put a smile on my face. And muddle my way though it. I’m only human after all.
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