I can't sleep. It's 4am and I can't sleep. This insomnia won't escape me. I've heard that lying next to someone can make it hard to sleep. But I personally believe that attempting to sleep alone is what's keeping me up. I'm tossing and turning beating up the wall with my knees. My head is pounding and there's throbbing behind my eyes. Even my jaws hurt. Everything above my neck hurts and my body is telling me that I'm in withdrawal.
I miss love.
I miss being in love.
I miss making love.
Loneliness is literally killing me. I've been single for months now and it's finally catching up to me. I am yearning human physical contact. The basic composition of my humanity is on the hunt for closeness. A few nights of sex and conversation is not enough to get me high like real love does. It's like chewing gum when you really need a cigarette. And at this point, I'm starting to think that I need the patch.
I am addicted to love. 12 step programs don't help me. There is no rehab for my natural instinct. I was designed to be a part of another human being, physically, emotionally and spiritually. Without my other half, I am incomplete and in a dead heat. I crave the flesh of another human being and I crave the scent of a man. My bedsheets smell like Tide instead of his cologne. My tossing and turning is in vain because this is a solo performance, with no audience in sight.
I finally get out of bed and walk around. I look at my pedicured toes as they sink into my carpet. He picked out this carpet, paid for it and laid it down. Now, every step I take feels like him. My body appreciates the soft texture but my spirit remembers the rigid relationship, so for every step I take, I find myself taking two steps back. And that's why 12 step programs don't help me. It's more like a tug of war than a steady stream of progress. I walk one way and he pulls me another. I am the weaker one. I always have been.
The thoughts in my head are running faster than I can walk around my apartment. I can barely hear them over the constant throbbing. I walk into the kitchen and turn the kettle on. Hot tea cures everything - that's what my mother told me when I was younger and I still believe it as I get older. I wait for the water to boil and plug my Ipod into my speakers. The notes dance over the silence in my apartment and yet I find no comfort. No love song can replace love itself. I want to dance but my body betrays me. Instead I lie down on our carpet, counting down the minutes till the kettle boils.
4 minutes - He's probably sleeping soundly, drooling and sh.t. What I would give to be dreaming right now.
3 minutes and 30 seconds - What if I never got up off this floor? My boss would probably call me and interrupt this new ritual of self pity. Selfish wench. She wouldn't even let me grieve in peace, although grieving is anything but peaceful. Wait, can you take time off for a broken heart? No. You can only get time off for a death. Is heartbreak not a death in itself? Never mind. Corporate America would never understand.
1 minute and 42 seconds - He has a lot of flaws, Lord knows, he's always late, he can't spell and he is terrible at cooking. But he did a really good job with this carpet. I guess God gives everyone a talent.
Whistle! Time's up for my thoughts. My kettle is so demanding. I have to get up from the floor slowly. No need to rush for something that won't even be ready to enjoy when I get there. Ha. ha. Same is true for men, I suppose. Maybe this insomnia has the answers to all my relationship questions. Who am I kidding, relationships don't have questions. Questions only come in hindsight, when you've lost it all and you're wondering when, where and how did it all happen. To think of it, when we were together, I had no damn questions. Maybe if I asked one or two, I would have known his true whereabouts when he said he was working or I would have know about the other woman he was sleeping with. But like I said, this is all in hindsight. This is long after my dreams of marriage, children and happily ever after found themselves scattered in the ashes of his clothes that I burned in the tub. Thank you, Angela Bassett.
Chamomile or peppermint? Chamomile.
I reach for a mug in the cupboard and as if God is playing a sick joke on me, I pull his favorite mug out.
I should have burned this sh.t too.
I just don't get it. Even when a person moves out, there are so many things that get left behind. Mugs, toothbrushes, socks and memories. Give me a break. As a matter fact, don't. Heartbreak was a break enough. The word itself doesn't even describe the damage done in the wake of a battlefield that was once our relationship. Your heart is only the first thing to break with your spirit and your confidence following, then your hopes, your dreams and your beliefs for a happy ending. So many things break and even when you attempt to pick up the pieces, the shards cut deeper. And in my experience, it's always better to cry than bleed.
Janet Jackson - I Get So Lonely booms through the speakers. You are damn right, Janet. When I was younger, I fell in love with the choreography of the song, never understanding the depth of her lyrics. Now, even though the choreography is still fresh in my mind, I understand the words more than the dance moves. My, my how we grow up. Never did I imagine, that Ms. Janet Jackson and I could possible share the same story. But icon or not, humanity is more common than fame.
I bring my tea to the carpet and I sit down with my legs stretched out in front of me. I count the childhood scars that followed me into adulthood.
Dark circle on my shin - My friend jumped on the bed to surprise me and fractured my bone.Straight line on my left knee cap - Riding my bike down a flight of stairs.Dark spot on my right knee - Riding...him. That's relatively new.
I wonder if people could see the scars that I acquired outside of childhood. Would there ever be a scar that would tell the world that someone broke my heart? Would there ever be a Neosporin to prevent the scar infidelity bears? If only breaking up was like getting a skinned knee. If only I could just get a band aid and a lollipop and be okay. But childhood scars are so much simpler than the wounds we bear as we get older.
Heartbreak runs deep to the white meat. You know when you get a cut so deep, you don't even bleed right away? That's what heartbreak is like. You're in shock at first. I was in shock. And once you see the blood, you know it's real and you start to cry? Yeah, my insomnia is me crying.
Every moment that my eyes refuse to close, they're crying without tears. I'm beginning to think that's because I have no tears left. When we broke up, I cried until I had nothing left inside of me - no joy, no faith and no more tears. I cried while washing the dishes. I cried in the shower. I cried doing laundry. I cried in my sleep - when I used to sleep. I cried at work. I cried doing my hair. I cried brushing my teeth. I cried putting on my clothes. I just cried and it would make sense that I finally ran out of tears. There's not enough tears in the world to fill the hole that heartbreak leaves, so eventually I entered the second phase of heartbreak and I call it insomnia.
I mean, I can't be too mad. What's the point of sleeping if I only have nightmares? What is the point of sleeping in a huge bed by myself? What is the point of having two pillows when there's only one of us left? What is the point of sleeping on the right side? It only means that he still has a side, even though he's sleeping somewhere else. So instead of trying to sleep, I'm going to let this tea heal me and replenish some of the tears that I've lost.
Chamomile was a good choice. Even though he wasn't.
The sun and I meet again. Its rays never let me down. They always show up on time attempting to brighten my day. This insomnia has made best friends of the sun and I.
Dear Sun,
I couldn't sleep last night but of course, you already knew that. Is there a woman on the other side of the world that you have this conversation with too? Is she as lonely as I am? If you see her, tell her I have a cup of tea for her too. Sidebar, can you peak into his room and tell me what he's doing. I want you to shine so bright through his window that he has to pull the covers over his head to avoid your glare. Pretty please. Wake his ass up. He should suffer like I am. He had a backup plan. Who's going to love me with these bags under my eyes? I have no backup! I apologize. I didn't mean to take that tone with you. I'm just venting. Anyway. Thank you for visiting. I'm gonna go get ready for work. See you in a bit.
Sincerely,
The Night's Mistress
I miss love.
I miss being in love.
I miss making love.
Loneliness is literally killing me. I've been single for months now and it's finally catching up to me. I am yearning human physical contact. The basic composition of my humanity is on the hunt for closeness. A few nights of sex and conversation is not enough to get me high like real love does. It's like chewing gum when you really need a cigarette. And at this point, I'm starting to think that I need the patch.
I am addicted to love. 12 step programs don't help me. There is no rehab for my natural instinct. I was designed to be a part of another human being, physically, emotionally and spiritually. Without my other half, I am incomplete and in a dead heat. I crave the flesh of another human being and I crave the scent of a man. My bedsheets smell like Tide instead of his cologne. My tossing and turning is in vain because this is a solo performance, with no audience in sight.
I finally get out of bed and walk around. I look at my pedicured toes as they sink into my carpet. He picked out this carpet, paid for it and laid it down. Now, every step I take feels like him. My body appreciates the soft texture but my spirit remembers the rigid relationship, so for every step I take, I find myself taking two steps back. And that's why 12 step programs don't help me. It's more like a tug of war than a steady stream of progress. I walk one way and he pulls me another. I am the weaker one. I always have been.
The thoughts in my head are running faster than I can walk around my apartment. I can barely hear them over the constant throbbing. I walk into the kitchen and turn the kettle on. Hot tea cures everything - that's what my mother told me when I was younger and I still believe it as I get older. I wait for the water to boil and plug my Ipod into my speakers. The notes dance over the silence in my apartment and yet I find no comfort. No love song can replace love itself. I want to dance but my body betrays me. Instead I lie down on our carpet, counting down the minutes till the kettle boils.
4 minutes - He's probably sleeping soundly, drooling and sh.t. What I would give to be dreaming right now.
3 minutes and 30 seconds - What if I never got up off this floor? My boss would probably call me and interrupt this new ritual of self pity. Selfish wench. She wouldn't even let me grieve in peace, although grieving is anything but peaceful. Wait, can you take time off for a broken heart? No. You can only get time off for a death. Is heartbreak not a death in itself? Never mind. Corporate America would never understand.
1 minute and 42 seconds - He has a lot of flaws, Lord knows, he's always late, he can't spell and he is terrible at cooking. But he did a really good job with this carpet. I guess God gives everyone a talent.
Whistle! Time's up for my thoughts. My kettle is so demanding. I have to get up from the floor slowly. No need to rush for something that won't even be ready to enjoy when I get there. Ha. ha. Same is true for men, I suppose. Maybe this insomnia has the answers to all my relationship questions. Who am I kidding, relationships don't have questions. Questions only come in hindsight, when you've lost it all and you're wondering when, where and how did it all happen. To think of it, when we were together, I had no damn questions. Maybe if I asked one or two, I would have known his true whereabouts when he said he was working or I would have know about the other woman he was sleeping with. But like I said, this is all in hindsight. This is long after my dreams of marriage, children and happily ever after found themselves scattered in the ashes of his clothes that I burned in the tub. Thank you, Angela Bassett.
Chamomile or peppermint? Chamomile.
I reach for a mug in the cupboard and as if God is playing a sick joke on me, I pull his favorite mug out.
I should have burned this sh.t too.
I just don't get it. Even when a person moves out, there are so many things that get left behind. Mugs, toothbrushes, socks and memories. Give me a break. As a matter fact, don't. Heartbreak was a break enough. The word itself doesn't even describe the damage done in the wake of a battlefield that was once our relationship. Your heart is only the first thing to break with your spirit and your confidence following, then your hopes, your dreams and your beliefs for a happy ending. So many things break and even when you attempt to pick up the pieces, the shards cut deeper. And in my experience, it's always better to cry than bleed.
Janet Jackson - I Get So Lonely booms through the speakers. You are damn right, Janet. When I was younger, I fell in love with the choreography of the song, never understanding the depth of her lyrics. Now, even though the choreography is still fresh in my mind, I understand the words more than the dance moves. My, my how we grow up. Never did I imagine, that Ms. Janet Jackson and I could possible share the same story. But icon or not, humanity is more common than fame.
I bring my tea to the carpet and I sit down with my legs stretched out in front of me. I count the childhood scars that followed me into adulthood.
Dark circle on my shin - My friend jumped on the bed to surprise me and fractured my bone.Straight line on my left knee cap - Riding my bike down a flight of stairs.Dark spot on my right knee - Riding...him. That's relatively new.
I wonder if people could see the scars that I acquired outside of childhood. Would there ever be a scar that would tell the world that someone broke my heart? Would there ever be a Neosporin to prevent the scar infidelity bears? If only breaking up was like getting a skinned knee. If only I could just get a band aid and a lollipop and be okay. But childhood scars are so much simpler than the wounds we bear as we get older.
Heartbreak runs deep to the white meat. You know when you get a cut so deep, you don't even bleed right away? That's what heartbreak is like. You're in shock at first. I was in shock. And once you see the blood, you know it's real and you start to cry? Yeah, my insomnia is me crying.
Every moment that my eyes refuse to close, they're crying without tears. I'm beginning to think that's because I have no tears left. When we broke up, I cried until I had nothing left inside of me - no joy, no faith and no more tears. I cried while washing the dishes. I cried in the shower. I cried doing laundry. I cried in my sleep - when I used to sleep. I cried at work. I cried doing my hair. I cried brushing my teeth. I cried putting on my clothes. I just cried and it would make sense that I finally ran out of tears. There's not enough tears in the world to fill the hole that heartbreak leaves, so eventually I entered the second phase of heartbreak and I call it insomnia.
I mean, I can't be too mad. What's the point of sleeping if I only have nightmares? What is the point of sleeping in a huge bed by myself? What is the point of having two pillows when there's only one of us left? What is the point of sleeping on the right side? It only means that he still has a side, even though he's sleeping somewhere else. So instead of trying to sleep, I'm going to let this tea heal me and replenish some of the tears that I've lost.
Chamomile was a good choice. Even though he wasn't.
The sun and I meet again. Its rays never let me down. They always show up on time attempting to brighten my day. This insomnia has made best friends of the sun and I.
Dear Sun,
I couldn't sleep last night but of course, you already knew that. Is there a woman on the other side of the world that you have this conversation with too? Is she as lonely as I am? If you see her, tell her I have a cup of tea for her too. Sidebar, can you peak into his room and tell me what he's doing. I want you to shine so bright through his window that he has to pull the covers over his head to avoid your glare. Pretty please. Wake his ass up. He should suffer like I am. He had a backup plan. Who's going to love me with these bags under my eyes? I have no backup! I apologize. I didn't mean to take that tone with you. I'm just venting. Anyway. Thank you for visiting. I'm gonna go get ready for work. See you in a bit.
Sincerely,
The Night's Mistress
1 comment:
Tas, I absolutely LOVE this. I swear you have taken my thoughts and laid them out so eloquently. I wrote something similar to this; it was much shorter, but it encompassed everything you have. Wow I love it.
-Aigner
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