I managed to sleep for 15 hours last night. Not a new record or anything but certainly an accomplishment. Despite my “Oh, I’ve learned so much and I’m just floating through life” bullshit that I said in my last post, I’m miserable as fuck. I mean it….I can’t stand to be awake. When I’m awake, all I can think about is the fucked up state of things in this world and in this country (fuck the U.S. and the piss poor choice between two old white motherfuckers who have never struggled a day in their fucking lives) and the fucked up state of things in my life. I have being alive so much that I try to stay asleep just so that I can avoid it. And lately, with the help of some meds from an unsuspecting and young new M.D., I have the pharmaceuticals to help me go to sleep anytime. Thank God for young doctors who want to be liked by their patients.
I’m going to be mad at myself for writing this later. I am not supposed to write, you see. I am the darkness within…the voice without hope and the personality of sour decay. I am the one who breaks things and throws tantrums. I am the one who used to be mean to the animals and the reason we can’t have pets anymore. I am the one who hates everything. I am the one who gets the tingle “down there” but never gets to do anything about it without feeling Nasty. I am the one who has never been loved…except by Grandmother.
The refrigerator was making that weird high pitched whine-rattle thing that fridges sometimes do just as I was sitting down to start writing this and I tackled it. Literally. I ran fullsteam into the kitchen with my arms outstretched and hit it hard enough to knock it a couple feet and into the wall. I’m pretty sure I would have toppled it if the wall hadn’t been there to stop it. I wish I could have. I wish I could sledgehammer it and break and tear and shred stuff. I fucking hate everything. I am so fucking mad.
While I was dreaming, I had the happy dream again…the one where I come into some money and buy my Grandmother’s farm for myself. It was auctioned off 30 years ago to another family and has been remodeled and updated since (as I brokenheartedly discovered one time when I drove by to see it). But in my dreams, it is always just as I remembered it but aged…like it has been waiting for me to come back and is matched in my progressive brokenness and dustiness. The comfort of “home” that I feel when I have this dream is unparalleled in my life. The joy in walking through the rooms and remembering the smallest of details. The sheer of idea of being somewhere I belong.
I hate this fucking life and wish with all my heart I could go back to being the happy child who played on the farm, fished in the pond and went to bed each night happy to be alive and loved by the woman who cared for me. If I knew last night’s dream was waiting for me, I’d go to sleep forever.
But in the meantime, at least the fucking refrigerator is fixed.