Meds
8pm is my favorite time of day
I live alone, and I love that. I love being as messy (or not) as I want. Taking a bath (or not) if I want — whenever I want. My bed is mind, and if I wake up talking in my sleep, there is no one to fuck with me and start having a conversation to see what I say.
I love that on bad days, I can take my medications at 8pm and enjoy the calm they bring me, the quiet stillness of my breath, the drying of my eyes and the slow inhale of the warm air in my studio. This time of day is my favorite, and has become a kind of addiction; it’s a euphoria, but really a release of all the tension and stress and panic I live with, day in, but not day out.
Day out I live with a smile, my knots in shoulders releasing as I become a rice krispie treat. I find baths at this time divine, but dangerous — what if I fall asleep (I’ll wake up, so ….. so what?) I’m just so cozy in bed, and it’s as simple as placing the laptop in the floor and turning out the lamp (and getting water, as I sip on ultra flat diet soda.)
I wonder how many others look forward to this feeling, the magic mix of a cocktail that makes me feel….ok. Feel like I can handle the rest of today, no urgent cares, not hospitals. I can just gossip on reddit and sleep. And sleep all day, because I’m done with The Crimson Scarecrow as someone on reddit coded it (to protect all of our privacy and google finding me). It’s not worth it. I checked my credit and nothing is scary there. ASU has not come after me, nor has the apartment complex in which I was not a real person. (An interesting story.)
My confessionals are mine, and I debate telling them, selling them, an Emily Dickinson of the millennials. I look at a job, a minimum wage job, an go….why. Why am I doing this?
I sit here, my mind a kind of quiet where….nothing….happens, and I think that I can challenge myself to a new kind of gig. To writing. To driving. To getting better at being better myself.
So this is what I feel like when my brain feels better. I feel better. And so I’m delighted for better psychiatric care. Something my father doesn’t grasp. And I’m grasping he doesn’t get it. Never does. And getting him to get it will be my life challenge. Or, letting go of it.
Either way, I will sleep not caring. Because mentally, I don’t hurt. And that’s a lot of the self care I’ve worked towards. These evening hours and how to find peace and enough of winding down, lotions, masks, hair ties and pills to go….yes. I’m ready to close my eyes.
And know that those who love me would say it. And i’d say it back.
And to those who ever read this, Love you all. Goodnight.
