A mind is a terrible thing to waste but also sometimes a terrible place to be.
I feel like a prisoner of my mind. I am stuck inside of it, and it is very loud in here. It is full of thoughts and songs and screams and flashbacks and wordless dread. It is loudest when the surrounding air is quiet. It’s disorderly, constantly interrupting itself. It’s like a radio skipping from station to station, never letting the announcers or singers or even static finish their sentences.
The noise hurts my brain and so I try to numb the pain.
I numb myself by turning up the volume on everything else.
I numb myself with apps and games that have lots of colors and characters. I numb myself with music. I fill the empty air with familiar news shows, cartoons, and HGTV. I doomscroll without focusing; it gives my finger something to do. I buy things I don’t need for the hit of dopamine when they arrive. I bounce my legs and pull out my eyelashes. I order delivery. I nap.
I feed my brain candy instead of nutrition.
But the effects of candy and novocaine only last so long.
I neglect self-care and teach my body that daytime is for sleeping and nighttime is for lying awake listening to the cacophony in my head that has only gotten louder. It has learned to turn up the volume to match the noise of my distractions. I haven’t fallen asleep before 5 or 6 a.m. once this month.
With the pandemic getting worse, I barely see anyone. I hardly go outside. I don’t do laundry. I don’t shower. I don’t even reach 1,000 steps most days, and when I do, it’s probably because I had to pee a lot that day. I certainly don’t work toward any goals or even HAVE goals beyond doing enough work to keep myself employed. I’m too ashamed to resume therapy because I know my therapist is going to tell me to do the things I already know I’m supposed to be — but am not — doing.
I am in a fight with myself and I don’t know who’s winning. I’m certainly not giving Don and Tony a life worth watching. If they even exist. If I even exist.
I feel nothing but nervous energy and self-loathing. I almost miss the blinding agony of early grief. At least I felt something real. At least I had a good excuse.
As I approach the two-year anniversary of the death of my husband and of my former self, my prevailing emotion is anger. Anger at the dispassionate cruelty of the universe. Anger that my happy ending was cut short. Anger that no matter how much I want my loves back, it will never happen. Anger that so many lives have been derailed and made smaller. Anger that there’s no one to even blame.
I don’t have a pretty wrap-up today. I’m not looking for pity or advice. Just hoping that by screaming into the void, I might find someone to scream back.
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