Notes from the bottom of the Hole

I am sitting at my desk in a heavy haze, some of which comes from copious amounts of smoke from incense, some of which comes from having been up spiraling in terror until who knows what time. I was surprised to wake up to wisps of kind, gentle dreams, comforting but disappearing as subtly as shreds of mist in the rising sun, leaving me with no handhold to grasp to secure myself to the day.

It’s one of those times. One of those deeply uncomfortable and confusing times where everything just feels a little bit wrong, a little bit off. In the daytime, I can ride along the top of it like a little boat on a river, taking care of tasks, doing my jobs, making sure the needs are met. But in the night, I slide under, into a world where everything is surreal, tinged yellow, covered with a layer of grime. I am trapped, optionless, all of my past and future decisions pushing against me, mashing me against the wrongness of everything. I fall asleep to wake a minute later with my blood cold, the shot of body chemicals electrifying me awake and propelling me into the ache, the fear, the shame, the loneliness.