I was eating breakfast with a friend Friday morning when she asked me what my worst time of day was. I hesitated for a bit before answering, because it has changed from time to time in the past few months. “Night time,” I said. Night time is when I’m left alone with my thoughts. It’s the time between turning off the light and actually falling asleep.
For the first couple of months after Dawn passed, this was easily the worst part of every day, and every day was bad. Even when my days got better, bedtime was the time I dreaded most. I’d lay there, exhausted, begging for sleep when my mind would just race and race and I couldn’t sleep. I’d find myself awake for hours pondering a million things about my life, none of which stayed in focus for more than a few seconds at a time. For a while that changed, and I grew to enjoy the solitude. It gave me a chance to focus on things I enjoyed doing by myself, but before long it came back and I now dread the nights alone.
Sunday has always been hard. Sundays are quiet and relaxed, save for the cleaning of the house and washing the laundry. We’ve always had easy Sundays in our house for as long as I can remember, and now they are no different. What’s become of Sundays, however, is that they are essentially 24 hours of night. I have no energy or motivation to move a muscle or do a thing. I sit with my thoughts and I live with the loneliness that death has given me. I suppose a big part of my weekend drinking was to spend at least a portion of the next day nursing a hangover, so I could be distracted by alcoholic illness instead of dealing with my life. Obviously not a healthy choice, but it did wonders for my mental state.
As expected, I was up early this morning despite all my best efforts at staying asleep for as long as I possibly could. My morning was filled with thoughts of trying too hard to form relationships and if I was ever going to be able to just let things be. I got nowhere with that. I miss everybody, but does anybody miss me? This is how my mind works on Sundays, and at bedtime. I can’t escape it.
I crave companionship, like so many other single people. I crave it and I think about what’s wrong with me that I can’t find it. I can’t help it. I know I try too hard. I know it will happen organically, as Tanya always tells me. I’m just lost and sad and lonely and impatient. I haven’t given up on Hope, but it has tried my patience on many occasions. I just want something to take my mind elsewhere, for just a little while, and that’s why I try so hard. I hope I can quit trying, because it hurts too much to get so little in return.