Waking in fear that the clock will say 2 AM, not 5, relief comes to see it close to 5 AM. Unsure why 6 miraculous weeks of good sleep were bestowed upon me, fear ratchets up after a bad night that more will follow. Repeated nights of those are so hard.
I used to think something during the day needing tending to kept me awake, or woke me in the night. That doesn’t seem to be the culprit. What does seem likely is my broken nervous system that catapults into overdrive even with a thought.
And many unpleasant thoughts come visiting in the wee hours of morning, or in the middle of the night. It takes persistent counter tactics to even out those negative messages.
It occurred to me that other things about me will remain broken, especially the feelings of being bad, not good enough, dirty— name whatever a child believes when she has been sexually attacked by loved ones, and that is what I’ve taken in as my fault cementing into part of my personality.
They would have had a chance if I hadn’t been born. (brothers who attacked) They died so young in terms of how long we tend to live today; one at 28, one at 52, one at 66, the last still living is 76.
Why didn’t you just stop having them, especially me? These are my thoughts upon waking even after a good night of sleep.
Why would you have so many? They were beautiful children, yet she seemed more interested in partying, and being belle of the ball. Seven beautiful boys who needed love and attention, not her scorn, and outright hate because of the work to care for so many.
Those feelings about myself remain a part of who I am. And that is the work, learning to be kind to myself… making a retreat worth coming into. A soft place to fall inside me. To warm that cold interior where no one would want to be, and make it my haven, my home.