Sunday, May 24

10pm

I'm not sure what it is about this time of night that makes me cry. Somewhere between 10 and 11pm, my ears become heavy and I start to panic. It usually spawns when I'm getting ready for bed, somewhere between brushing my teeth and returning to my room alone.

Loneliness is the worst part of depression, not the getting out of bed at 6pm or the feelings of failure. It's the idea that I'm alone, alone with my thoughts and my bed, the bed that isn't even mine. Sometimes I feel like this bed is the last thing I have left. I crawl under the covers each night knowing that I'm not going to be reaching the pinnacle of my day until the birds are well into chirping a few hours later. I keep the window open because it feels like I'm outside without having to leave the comfort of what isn't actually mine.

Stores are closed, restaurants are closed. Parents aren't in bed yet because of the holiday weekend. Kids are running around the coffee table while an animated television distraction lights the windows from Netflix. Two drunk people kiss at a bar. An old man curses the rain and his step-son. A well-loved cat sits by his bowl of food that he doesn't seem to realize isn't empty.

I started Season 8 of SVU. Mariska is on maternity leave and was "temporarily reassigned" to her newborn baby. Stabler butts heads with Dani Beck, his overzealous new partner. Ice-T cracks comments like, "that's cold, dog" while Munch enlightens everyone to his newest conspiracy theory. Blah blah blah.

Every time I'm in a major depressive episode, I latch onto a television series. It makes me feel like I have friends. I can catch up on their drama and the backstories which lead up to the latest goings on. In 2010, it was The Office. In 2008, it was Ghost Adventures. While I enjoy the ridiculousness of these shows, they help me feel like I'm not alone.

I've been trying to do at least one thing per day. Yesterday, it was dye my hair a heinous color. Today it was laundry. Tomorrow I need to buy stamps. Having someone ask me, "What did you do today?" has left me feeling dry and unaccomplished because I never want to respond with "nothing." There have been those days in sobriety where I let myself be tired or numb, but the feeling of inadequacy always returns around 10pm, the time where my solitary confinement sets in. Supposedly, my body and mind won't be completely acclimated to sobriety until I'm sober for one year. Nine months to go seems like a long time, even though the three months I've been sober has almost seemed longer.

There are times where I really enjoy being alone: I can do what I please without anyone judging me. Other times, I'm really craving social interaction, which is hard to accomplish at 10pm on a Sunday night during a holiday weekend. I cannot expect the world to cater to my loneliness.

My dreams have been vivid, and I'm relieved to leave them upon waking. Buying a gun in a bar was probably the scariest one yet. I sat down to purchase a beer from the bartender and a gun from another comic. I woke up sweating and crying. Drinking dreams are supposedly a sign that you are committed to your recovery because you're seeing the things that could potentially happen if you return to alcohol. I want to be a whole person, and drinking never allowed me to be a whole person. I highly doubt that if I were to drink I'd be purchasing a handgun because guns scare me and I've never owned one, held one, or even seen a gun. I don't want to be a monster anymore.

I should go to bed, but I don't want to cry or have bad dreams. Season 8, Episode 6 of SVU it is.


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