Only Slightly Melancholic

I.

It was past midnight. Outside her bedroom window, the sky was dark and the world had long gone to bed. 

But not her. She tossed and turned under her sickly humid covers. Every now and then, she’d poke her head out, to gasp for air. Then, a wave of thoughts pulled her back into the suffocating tangle of blankets. 

Her “haven” was a scary place at night, it seemed. 

Just how many nights it’d been like this, she couldn’t count. 

Alone in her small bedroom, the only company she had was her subconscious, which spewed angry thoughts around and around her head. 

Of course she wasn’t asleep. How could she, when her own conscious—bound to her through intangible realms— identified as an enemy to her?  

The more her mind told her that she wasn’t good enough and she was horrible and ugly and that she could never be enough, the more she was reminded of the phony smile and laughter she held onto when she was amongst her friends—only for all of that to come crashing down by nightfall. For night was dangerous; alone and hidden by the silence of the dark, all she could do was listen. 

All she could do was listen, and react. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and pooled into her hair; almost synonymous to the stream of consciousness that crashed tumultuously—never ceasing. 

The night stood still as she cried herself to sleep. 

 * * *  

II.

She clicked furiously on her laptop; alternating between the tabs,  the stress absolute on her fingers. Her chemistry project was due in about an hour. She’d waited till the last possible minute to complete it, yet again. Why she continually did this she did not know, and though after every last-minute assignment she vowed to become a changed student, every task ended the same. 

This earned her countless disapproval from her parents and mockery from friends, though she couldn’t help it. 

As she worked away, her hand groaning from the clicking and typing, she knew what she’d face after she submitted it. She could hear her parents, questioning her for the millionth time, wondering why she had made the same mistake yet again, and admonishing her for not being as productive and skilled at balancing her time as her peers were.      

Finally. She submitted the project and sighed. Now she had to study for her math test… 

Ever since she’d entered high school, her time managing abilities had further deteriorated, and she’d been further burdened by work and academic pressures. But she’d grown accustomed to this daily schedule.  

By the time she’d finished her other work and studying for that stupid test, it was midnight. Her parents had gone to bed hours ago, but not before their disappointment and anger was voiced. 

She loathed studying for math, because it reminded her of how she was the only one in that class struggling- her classmates included students from a grade below- too smart for their own grade- and those from her own-too smart for her. 

She lied awake in bed, that night and countless nights before still fresh in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tight under her blankets, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, deja vu hit sharply. Hot tears flowed freely. She tossed and turned. 

It was funny. She’d get older and move up a grade each year in school. But at night, she was the same, silly, and sad girl she’d been for years. 

At night, though the reason varied every time, she broke apart. 

The night stood still as she cried herself to sleep. 

The night stood still as her tears dried on her pillow. 

 * * * 

III. 

She wasn’t one to participate much in class. The thought of getting an answer wrong and being deemed idiotic in another’s mind got in the way of that. 

Instead, she used her voice during chatter and gossip with her tight-knit circle of friends. She’d joke and laugh incessantly, juxtaposing nicely with the timid girl she was during class. 

With her friends, she’d hold an air of confidence so fake, it seemed real. Yet in the hallways, she walked with a hunched back, not looking at anyone. She’d wear to school the few outfits she’d allow herself to wear. 

That was during the day. At night, she fell apart. 

...for night was dangerous; alone and hidden by the silence of the dark, all she could do was listen...

And the reason fluctuated. Yet, it held a consistent pattern. Just the other night it was the issue of her appearance. 

This had been a major reason for years. 

Was she vain, then? Conceited? Maybe. But she avoided looking at herself in the mirror. 

Of course, there was also the issue of intelligence. Her own conscious mind had made it out to her, over the years, that she was not as competent as her diligent peers. 

And no matter what the issue was, at the end of the day, all ended with silent sobs. 

IV. 

This had, of course, weighed down on her over the years. It offered a reasoning for the way she carried herself in school the way she did. 

And she continued this way, in this manner. She was always reminded of her failures one way or another. And though she smiled boldly in the face of adversity, her true, weak self shattered in the quiet of the night. 

Yet something had changed as of late. More time with herself meant she wasn’t alone with her other half just at night, but rather, under the sun too. 

Unstructured time meant she could give herself more room to grow; more space for doing things she loved. Time away meant she could allow herself to wear nearly all the items in her closet, not just the constraints of her previous school life. 

This combined with the healing connection she had to music, caused her to question the countless nights spent in tears upset at herself. 

She wondered, why? Why did they have to continue? Why did she have to put up a front between the hours of daytime and nighttime? So she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled at herself and picked herself up—swooped herself up with nurturing arms. 

Suddenly, all was calm, and nights became a time for rapid eye movement and sleep. 

Yet every now and then, a storm came in on a tumultuous wind. It made its way into her mind and activated dried tears. And then, she’d undo what she had worked so hard on; the bricks she’d so meticulously stacked would come crashing down, and all she could do was listen, and react.

Her “haven” was a scary place at night, it seemed.