Fear and Fury

I drink most nights,

It’s enough to be considered a problem.

Because I’m not perched on a construction block outside the bar, laughing with friends-

I’m alone in my bed a few hours before work starts.

The self medication battles against my sleep medication, creating a blissful but restless combination.

I can’t feel my heart beat like this- can’t hear the rushing of blood to my temple.

I lay on my stomach and imagine in the swelter of a summer night this to be what a bottom feeder feels- uneasy and hot but quelled by a need to rest, unable to find something so peaceful as suffocating.

Despite my best efforts I do not stop thinking. My brain doubles over, tries harder to press its urgent message of horrible things to my forefront

Until I’m just drunk and sad.

What is one to do with that?

I taste the nicotine on my lips, folding them in uncertainty. Yearn for sleep. Yearn for daylight, when there’s things to occupy.

There is no sexual desire in anything I do. Nothing that elicits an early adult response. I drink more hoping it will help, but I simply get scared.

My therapist hasn’t answered my calls. I’ve given up trying. What’s the endeavour, other than to release my feelings? She won’t offer anything more- I know alll there is to.

How terrible a fate, to know it all and remain miserable?

I prop myself on an arm, my shoulder aching with the weight as I drink water listlessly. I know I will be miserable in the morning still with a headache to boot, but perhaps I will feel better. Here is to hoping, I murmur with another shot.

Fear protected by fury