I have forgotten that I retain the capacity for good dreams.

By which I mean dreams that are not unpleasant.

Since maybe December 23rd, every night is a frustrating, exhausting, and often frightening struggle against the turbulent whims of my mind’s electrochemical impulses, sending me through labyrinths of stress, confusion, and fatigue.

Deprived of respite from the constant oppressive busyness of my quotidien life (albeit the protected and privileged life I lead; the majority of my complaints being due to self-inflicted difficulties), I find an intense frustration in being unable to relax. I’ve tried meditation and self-hypnosis. I tried yoga and relaxation techniques. I tried melatonin but instead of relaxation I got an anxiety attack. I doubt medication would help anyway; my issues oft come later in the night.

So what is typically relief from the stresses and pressures of reality has become just another opportunity to make myself suffer almost certainly needlessly.

Once in a while, I find myself being taunted by some pleasant imagery, a hint of peace, but it is all too easy for it to be swept up in the flurry of anxiety and confusion of my abysmal mental wanderings.

I fear treading further into the world of treatment, which expands all too easily into extremes; I am waiting it out.

Sleep will come. Dreams will come.

Darkness will come, and I may shy away from the repressive detail of my nightmares.


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