When you’re depressed, nighttime is the worst time.

The only thing you can or want to do is sleep, but sleep is the one thing you aren’t able to do.

The thoughts and fears that are easily ignored in the brightness of sunshine are waiting for you under the cover of darkness, lurking in shadowy corners, poised to strike. There’s nowhere for you to hide, and so you must suffer in silence, on your back, in your bed, staring at the ceiling with wide, itchy eyes. You may even pray for death, anything that will bring you to that desired unconscious state of mind where there’s nothing to feel because pain doesn’t exist.

 

I am depressed,

it is nighttime,

and sleep, the one thing I want more than anything in the world right now,

evades me.

 

And so I write. I write these words, hoping that by doing so, I will be able to write myself into dreamland, the pen I hold a cloud that carries me deep into the dark.

 

It is the one place I yearn for, crave for, at this moment,

but of course, it’s the one place that is

unattainable to me. 

 

The entrance to dreamland is a locked steel door, and no matter how many times I beat my fists bloody against its surface, screaming nonsensical and soundlessly, the door won’t budge for me, and I am trapped on the other side, the side of consciousness and mindfulness. The side where pain and loneliness and sadness reside, aching and bone-deep.

 

I am laying on my stomach on my bed,

feet where my head should be,

tap-dancing a pattern on my pillow.

 

My glass of apple juice is three-quarters full. I can feel my contacts drying out. My hand is cramping.

The month is November. The day is Saturday. The time is 11:42 PM. I am awake and I don’t want to be.

 

For more information about Allie Marie, follow her on Twitter & Instagram at @alliesob

 

Photo: Kyle Thompson

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