3 a.m.

The bane of my existence. Threevil. My demons time to come out to play. I lie in bed. I toss and turn. I’m hot, then cold. I’m so tired, but can’t sleep. My brain hurts. My body aches. Everything is turned up to a ten. Or eleven. My pain scale goes so very high. I would weep with joy for a nine. For a few blessed hours of real sleep. REM sleep. Restorative sleep. Dreamless sleep. Or at least no nightmares. Terror-filled nightmares of pain and suffering that jerk me out of sleep. My heart pounding. Soaking wet and shaking with fear. Half remembering what I dreamt of, praying to forget the rest. But I wake to pain as well. There’s no escape, even in my dreams. I used to dream of wonderful days and events and experiences. Happy times. But my demons took that away too. Along with my ability to work, travel, go to a movie, concert, or see a play. Even on those rare, treasured days that my pain is bearable (6 or 7), I stress so much about being out and unable to cope that I wind up staying home. My safe place. My controlled environment. Not to say there’s no pain at home. But I have my blackout curtains, my meds, ice pack, heating pad, TENS unit, headphones, and my emotional support furbaby Samantha. I’m as close to comfortable at home as I can be. So. Back to 3 a.m. When my thoughts run wild, the negativity and doubt cannot be buried or pushed away. I cry from the pain, the loneliness, the fear, the lost days. The demons laugh. They’ve won this round. I’m too tired to fight. Maybe tomorrow. Carry on. 

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