The flames of an impotent rage are burning in my stomach, futile and frustrating. An ache cloys in the hollow of my throat making my hands flutter uselessly to my neck as though warding off danger.
It is the powerlessness that fuels this fire. The sense that I cannot affect anything, not even my ability to sleep or stand. An evil snivelling greedy intruder insomnia has slithered into my house and gorged on my sleep leaving me starving. And I cannot find the power or control to hold my muscles into any practised positions, so my mind throws itself uselessly against the antagonism this intruder has enveloped me in.
And then a woman turns up, for an appointment I had cancelled. And she is sent straight upstairs to me in spite of my vocal insistence that she not be. She too is an employee of the department of ‘no listening’. And as I try to corral my rebellious thoughts and coerce my tongue into something coherent she talks at me and over me, wasting my greatly depleted energy on repeat. It has turns my insides burning amber with an impotent fire storm of rage that cannot be quelled.
I have no power. There are no choices to be made. And as my friends face their struggles with attempts at being Zen, I find little to be thankful for. I want to go back to the days before the intruder came when although I was exhausted beyond comprehension, I could sleep. Heavy drunken sleep, but sleep nonetheless. Now I flail uselessly about growling and stomping like a toddler learning to master their motor skills.
In the days before he gorged on my sleep, I could at least be thankful for the painful awareness that came with consciousness. Today I find nothing to be thankful for.
I am alive, I should be thankful for that. And maybe tomorrow I can be. If only that bastard intruder would leave me some sleep scraps, even crumbs. Then I promise to be thankful.