No Rest for the Weary

4th of March of 2020

And the 5th of the same month.

And the 6th.

But also the 3rd and 2nd and 1st.

You know what. Let’s just do this:

1st of January to 31st of December of 2020

Dear diary,

Here we are again, my old friend. It’s still only 3 o’clock. And I still can’t sleep. I don’t know why it always ends up like this.

Do you ever get lonely? Well, of course you don’t, you’re just a journal. I really am losing my mind, aren’t I? Talking to a journal like it has feelings, not being able to sleep, feeling a pit in my heart. No. In my soul. There’s something missing there, I swear, but it’s been missing for so long that I don’t remember what it was.

Today, while driving home, my phone charger fell out of the hole. I looked at that hole and I swear there was something else there when I bought it. I have the faintest, foggest memory of it. But what else would have been in that hole? It was made of metal all around and there wasn’t any electricity running through it. Thinking now, it was probably not the best idea to stick my finger in there. I just can’t seem to care much anymore. How does my phone charge from that hole? And what did it originally serve?

It’s the same thing inside of me. There’s a hole, and the peg fell out on the journey a long time ago. Was it black or blue or red? Was it metal or wood or plastic? Did it ever exist at all? What did it serve for?

I look around at the people around me sometimes. When I do that, I have a thought, “You’re not like the rest of them. You don’t think or feel like a human being. You’re not even a human being. You’re just some sort of monster putting on an act, hoping that no one will notice.” Is that normal? Is that why I need the peg?

I just get so tired of the act. The exhaustion is in my bones, in my muscles, my organs, my tendons, everywhere. Why can’t I just escape this feeling? I can’t even rest. Every night, the same. I lie down. That’s when the thoughts start. Most nights, the show starts with, “No one cares about you and you don’t know how to love, so you deserve it.”

Are the voices even wrong? My best confidante is you. And you don’t even talk back to me, so I don’t know if it counts. Everyone else is always going out to lunch together, or dinner, or to go golfing. Of course there’s Tom who doesn’t do any of that, but that’s just because he’s got a family.

I feel so alone. So scared. And so tired.

So,

so,

so,

so,

so,

very

tired.

It never ends. Never. The same hole always inside. The same smile I put on outside, so that no one can see how much it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Why do I go on with this?

Night after night, I sit staring at my phone, just hoping for someone, anyone to call or text or email. The tiredness sits heavily in my head and in my limbs and in my chest, but it doesn’t touch my eyes or eyelids. The loneliness just increases with each passing second, until it’s overwhelming. Where is the sweet oblivion of dreams, where at least I can pretend my life isn’t constant, hidden pain? The oblivion refuses to come. I want to scream. Just scream and scream. Block out the thoughts and the tiredness.

Soon enough, the heaviness becomes too much, and I slump to the ground. The carpet beneath my face doesn’t take long to become soaked through with tears and saliva, as I whimper through the pain. Finally, it stops and the numbness begins.

Such cold. I keep several blankets close by, but even with seven covering me, the coldness won’t leave me. Sweat will start from dripping from my face. My pj’s will soak through. Even with all the warmth, the coldness stays radiating from the hole.

Always the same routine. Always the same thing.

Sometimes I poke that hole, diary. I poked that hole. I no longer can get close enough to do that. Each time I tried to mend it, I broke even more inside. And now I’m broken. Cracks radiate outward from the hole filling my entire body.

Where is the peg?

Was there ever a peg?

Will there ever be a peg ever again, or will this never stop?

How much more of this can I take!?

Is it even worth it, diary? Life, I mean. Sure, everyone says that there’s good things about life. I vaguely remember when I believed that. Now, there’s nothing that I believe.

I remember when I used to enjoy eating. Eating was just enjoyable. Tasting the butter on the corn on the cob. Tasting the ketchup on a chicken nugget. Tasting the sweetness of a crisp apple. Tasting the perfectness of a good dark chocolate.

I’ve lost 25 pounds in the past month. My appetite is gone. Even thinking about eating makes me feel queasy. Food has gone from enjoyable to a chore. It’s a good day if I can get two good meals in. Most days, it’s just three light snacks.

An apple.

Or a small bowl of oatmeal.

Carrot sticks.

Or a packet of tuna.

And maybe a slice of bread. With, perhaps, some butter or jam. That’s too much effort and work many days.

Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive before starving to death. Would that be better than taking my life? Is it possible that the starvation will set in before I can do the job myself? How much longer can I push through this?

Every month that passes, I get more and more tired.

Every week that passes, I lose more and more hope.

Every day that passes, I weigh less and less. Sleep less and less. Smile more and more as people ask me if I’m alright. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth.

Every hour that passes, the temptation gets stronger and stronger while my resolve gets weaker and weaker.

Diary, I know that tomorrow is a new day. That everything will be better in the morning. That I should sleep on it.

That’s real funny. I can’t sleep. And I’ve already "slept" on it many, many times.

Should I keep suffering? Or should I go through one last blow of pain and be done? Will I be done? What comes after this?

Well, it’s 4 now. I’d better try to sleep again. I’ll be back again in twenty minutes, diary. Or tomorrow (which is today, I suppose). Or really tomorrow, as we meet in the wee hours of the morning again. Or maybe, never.

Maybe never.

Hmmm…

Goodnight, diary. Sleep well.