Sunday Night Insomnia: Ire and Pain

Sunday literally morphed into Monday. I was awake all night. I finally broke down and took medicine that made me sleepy and it finally took hold after two hours of writing. I am onto something with therapeutic writing. I wasn't writing anything flowery or poetic: quite the opposite. As you could tell from my curmudgeonly-kids-get-off-my-lawn-style of writing this weekend, I was experiencing an anxiety-ridden, depressive weekend. Saturday was my only reprieve with attending the Unity Gardens education center and reading poetry at the Cornbread and Jazz concert at Jake's Studio. There's nothing like reading poetry with gorgeous instrumental jazz music playing in the background. The words came to life and momentarily, so did my spirits, although it deflated by late Sunday afternoon.

How wonderful it is when words can inspire or soothe someone; how distressing it is when words (or the lack of them) can deflate or hurt someone. I am learning to be more careful with words myself, as words have ammunition.  I experienced that on Sunday.  I have to change my perspective. I wrote a  letter about the hurtful behavior (among others) and how hurtful it was. I may mail it. I may shred it. The important point is that those feelings of ire and pain are now outside of my conciousness and onto the page. I tend to not participate in family holidays anymore, as they are psychological land mines for anxiety triggers, which I am learning to avoid.  I am still broken--but healing- by the continual sadness that has happened since 2009.  At least for now, I am still here, plugging away, attempting to find inner peace in an outer world of pain.