(no subject)
I can never sleep sober.
Insomnia does come with a side of productivity, however, which is nice. After a few days (or months...) of escapism, whether through books and movies and television, eating and drinking and being merry, or any of the other easier paths, coming back down to earth with the wonderful perspective that comes after a vacation always leaves me awake at 2am with a cup of milky tea, writing. To sleep, perchance to dream? No, this clarity is fleeting.
So much, too much going on inside my head. Too much input, with no output. Writing relieves my overflowing brain, decanting the best or the worst of the chaos so that at least there's a more manageable quantity of nonsense to deal with.
They come in flashes, the memories and fantasies. The dreams are even worse, taking the most heartbreaking fantasies and the deepest fears and stirring them all together until I'm at an airport with Clara in her carseat, thinking I'm going to Guatemala but with a ticket to China in hand, and I set her down to find my passport and I don't know why I'm going to China, so I say the reason is pleasure but apparently no one goes to China for pleasure, only business... so I storm off only to realize halfway down the terminal that I've left my baby behind and I run back, but she's not crying, she's sitting happily babbling with a Chinese baby girl who's also been left behind like unattended luggage...
Long, involved dreams that throw me into the books I've been into (Harry Potter and Anne Lamott playing Quidditch in San Francisco and I'm the one they ask to explain whether it's Azkaban or Alcatraz we're flying over). Terrible dreams of being trapped and tortured and forgotten that I can only remember the feeling of relief afterward, laying alone in the still dark with Clara peacefully beside me.
But those are easier to wake up from than the dreams of things I want so much but can't have, fantasies I've allowed too much thought and so I pay the price of wonderful, beautiful scenes of him kissing me, holding me, murmuring dirty little nothings in my ear but it's not real.
It's so easy to try to go back into those dreams, to neglect reality in favor of your heart's desire. It's not real, of course but it's so much easier than getting up and dealing with poop and food stamps and never getting to be the little spoon.
.
.
.
The danger in these manic phases is that I will fly apart in all directions, like an atomic bomb, destroying everything beyond recognition.
All you need is containment, though. Decanting the brain in slow, logical sentences. Making lists, drawing diagrams, whatever keeps me from lighting things on fire and forgetting to eat.
So simple, compared to the dark and insidious danger of depression. The very real possibility that when you let yourself fall into the black hole, that your powerless self will slowly but inevitably crush you into nothingness.
On that note (which you may hold like a fermata for suspense as long as you wish... ) the thousand brilliant anecdotes I had bubbling around have succumbed to te de manzanilla and tryptophan.
[Next time I'll tell you a good story. Beginning, middle, and end. I promise ;]
Insomnia does come with a side of productivity, however, which is nice. After a few days (or months...) of escapism, whether through books and movies and television, eating and drinking and being merry, or any of the other easier paths, coming back down to earth with the wonderful perspective that comes after a vacation always leaves me awake at 2am with a cup of milky tea, writing. To sleep, perchance to dream? No, this clarity is fleeting.
So much, too much going on inside my head. Too much input, with no output. Writing relieves my overflowing brain, decanting the best or the worst of the chaos so that at least there's a more manageable quantity of nonsense to deal with.
They come in flashes, the memories and fantasies. The dreams are even worse, taking the most heartbreaking fantasies and the deepest fears and stirring them all together until I'm at an airport with Clara in her carseat, thinking I'm going to Guatemala but with a ticket to China in hand, and I set her down to find my passport and I don't know why I'm going to China, so I say the reason is pleasure but apparently no one goes to China for pleasure, only business... so I storm off only to realize halfway down the terminal that I've left my baby behind and I run back, but she's not crying, she's sitting happily babbling with a Chinese baby girl who's also been left behind like unattended luggage...
Long, involved dreams that throw me into the books I've been into (Harry Potter and Anne Lamott playing Quidditch in San Francisco and I'm the one they ask to explain whether it's Azkaban or Alcatraz we're flying over). Terrible dreams of being trapped and tortured and forgotten that I can only remember the feeling of relief afterward, laying alone in the still dark with Clara peacefully beside me.
But those are easier to wake up from than the dreams of things I want so much but can't have, fantasies I've allowed too much thought and so I pay the price of wonderful, beautiful scenes of him kissing me, holding me, murmuring dirty little nothings in my ear but it's not real.
It's so easy to try to go back into those dreams, to neglect reality in favor of your heart's desire. It's not real, of course but it's so much easier than getting up and dealing with poop and food stamps and never getting to be the little spoon.
.
.
.
The danger in these manic phases is that I will fly apart in all directions, like an atomic bomb, destroying everything beyond recognition.
All you need is containment, though. Decanting the brain in slow, logical sentences. Making lists, drawing diagrams, whatever keeps me from lighting things on fire and forgetting to eat.
So simple, compared to the dark and insidious danger of depression. The very real possibility that when you let yourself fall into the black hole, that your powerless self will slowly but inevitably crush you into nothingness.
On that note (which you may hold like a fermata for suspense as long as you wish... ) the thousand brilliant anecdotes I had bubbling around have succumbed to te de manzanilla and tryptophan.
[Next time I'll tell you a good story. Beginning, middle, and end. I promise ;]