Insomnia

I once read a news article about a man who suffered from a genetic disease called fatal familial insomnia.  It is an extrememly rare condition that ends in death a few months after its onset.  The person literally dies from exhaustion and is literally never able to sleep during these months.  They begin experiencing hallucinations and panic attacks until many are mute and unresponsive toward the end. 

But yet I still feel a sense of jealousy.  At least this person had years of retful nights.  At least there is an end in sight, even if it is death.  Here I am,  unable to sleep again.  I am tired, so tired my brain feels like sludge and I am unable to think.  But I still cannot sleep.  Yet, I have to continue to do the things I'm expected to do.  I'm supposed to be living a boring, normal life.  My life is boring but I'm not sure about the normal.  The only thing I am sure of in my life is pain.

Pain.  I know pain.  I know pain deep into its black marrow and the core of its scarred bones.  I feel as if pain's cells were imprinted in me at birth; that it is part of my DNA.  Not a day passes that my body is not riddled with deep, distracting aches that I feel slowly seeping to other locations. 

I cannot focus on anything but this pain.  My life revolves around this pain.  My life is pain.  One of the laundry list of doctors I have seen said my pain is stored emotional trauma.  Really?!? Regardless of what it is or isn't, it still hurts.

One day I woke up and my leg hurt.  And I've never been able to turn around since that day.  Normalcy and good health vanished as a speck in the horizon of my past. 

In the meantime, I have determined I should be one of those women on the home shopping programs peddling mediocre fashion jewelry and vacuums in the middle of the night.  I certainly wouldn't have a problem with the hours.  And truth be told, I like the variety of items available.  I mean, look - in one hour I can buy shampoo, a ladder, and a knock-off glass lamp!  Amazing.  I'm sure the popular audiences were just thinking to themselves today about how much they were needing these three items.  They were very preoccupied witht he errands they must run to procure these things.  But behold!  Here they are!!  All together!! (Insert sarcastic tones throughout.)  Hmm, yes, I've decided that would be the perfect job.  I just wonder if I could go on the air in pajamas and three day unwashed hair?

I had a job, a realatively good one.  But I can't do it anymore.  It hurts too much to get up, get dressed, and sit in one position for hours; not to mention the drama from co-workers.  So one day I called and said I'd be out a while.  And I never went back. 

A Lost Voice

So, I've found a site that lists a number of writing prompts every week.  I'm going to attempt to keep up with choosing one of these to write about to ensure that I will be posting at least once a week. 

This week I chose: Amy Winehouse died. Another name amidst a growing list of talented celebrities lost to addiction. Your reaction.

I've heard all the jokes and morbidly insulting comments made about Amy Winehouse before and after her death.  I am not ashamed to say I am an Amy Winehouse fan.  I haven't heard a voice like hers in some time.  She was unique and seemed to sing with that spectacular growl that only can be made by bringing up parts of your soul to your vocal cords.  I remember being excited the first time I heard her.  I immediately thought she was something special. 

It's always a mystery to me why some people can handle addiction and others seemingly use in a fashion that they can come and go from whatever their choice of drug is.  I have never used drugs nor did I ever have an interest in even experimenting.  So I don't know what these people are thinking or why they can't seem to escape their bottomless abyss of misery. 

I may not be a drug user but I do know what misery is.  I know what mental anguish is.  I know what holding your regrets in your heart will do to you.  I know the frustrations of feeling limited.  So for whatever reason the question comes into play that would I feel better if I had became so oblivious to what was going on? And there is where I start to understand how addiction must start and then, in turn, continue. If I found anything that made this pain seem bearable and livable for any amount of time, would I ever stop? 

Whatever demons Amy Winehouse was battling, I could see why you wouldn't want to face those ever again.  If living in a state of stupor suppressed the memories, the feelings, whatever it was, I could understand why it would be so hard to stop.  Why would you want to face the real world?  Why wake up to the same thoughts that have haunted the memory for as long as you can remember?  People are quick to make comments about Winehouse but no one has the right to judge.  No one else lived in her brain.  No one else knows what she was struggling to smother.  I will miss her voice.

If I could have a few moments of time that my pain was unnoticeable, could I ever give that up?