i couldn’t sleep. no matter how hard i tried, no matter how tired i became, sleep never happened. i yearned for sleep. every waking moment every single atom of my being was consumed by anguish. every unconscious minute was an opportunity to not have to feel anything. but sleep wanted to have nothing to do with me. sleep tried to spend as little time with me as possible.
i couldn’t eat. sometimes i felt hungry but it was always dominated by a severe lack of appetite. i would sometimes force myself to eat, but i could only handle very little. it would sit in my stomach, just begging to come back up. i became such enemies with food i couldn’t even look at it. just making eye contact with meals made me heave. my weight dropped down to 95 pounds.
i picked up smoking. i picked it up hard. never had i any reason or desire to smoke in previous years. while clearing boxes from a closet i found a lavender lighter. i should buy cigarettes. so i did. upon waking every morning i made myself ceylon tea and sat outside to smoke for two hours. when one cigarette had finally burned halfway through, i began to roll the next.
i stopped creating. for most of my life i chose to wallow in my sadness by using my hands. if ever there was a reason to not feel completely miserable, i found it in sculpture. nothing. nothing began to happen. inspiration ran away with my sleep and hunger. there was absolutely nothing left in me that was capable of creating. my entire being had become overpowered.
death felt like a good option. it surely had to be better than this. i can’t tell you why i didn’t do it. not too long ago i would have told you that i was grateful i didn’t do it. it took many years to let go of the desolation. i had almost forgotten what it felt like. and now here i am again, alone and broken hearted.