Can’t sleep. My whole body itches. The cats are trilling and the door is bump bump bumping because it’s windy outside — every time I hear the door rattle, I want to scream. The little cat played in his litter box for half an hour and stirred up a cloud of litter dust that’s exacerbating my headache.
I want to rip my own skin off and stomp on it while I howl. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had moments where all the sensory input completely overpowers any rational thought and I see red. Inexplicable, irrational rage boils in my gut and rips through me like something out of Alien. It doesn’t happen as much now that I’m older, and I’ve learned to control it, but when I was a child, the strangest things could set me off: the dog barking and bunchy socks, or flickering Christmas lights and slightly too-small pajamas. It gets worse when I’m exhausted or just waking up.
And I am tired. I am so tired. I’ve slept just over six hours in the past thirty-six hours — no more than an hour and a half at a time — and I feel like I’m unraveling. It’s incredible what sleep (or lack thereof) does to me. Ryan, he can pull a few nights of five or six hours without much problem. If I get less than eight hours (preferably nine to ten), I become useless. Panic attacks, headaches, confusion, panic attacks, and a general feeling that Everything Will Be Wrong Forever. Honestly, I avoid driving at all costs unless I’ve had eight hours of sleep because my cognitive function drops to zero and city driving overwhelms me a bit on the best of days.
