M is up every night now. I don’t suspect anything actually wrong with him other than the certain knowledge that he can get attention when he screams. so he screams.
N is finally not sick and so rarely wakes. Or he wakes, but not with regularity.
Last night after putting M down and not having him scream immediately, I couldn’t sleep. the barrage of screeching, the way it cuts into me, the necessity of meeting another’s demands at any time, wore me down so that I just stared into the darkness of each room I tried to sleep, hating. Hating T. Hating my mother. Hating myself.
I can find little relief from my mind, which harps on my failures over and over again. Which harps on my inaction, misdirected actions, the futility of any future actions.
Samantha Bee described grad school men stating they were going to be writers and the hesitation and lack of confidence of their female classmates who would say “maybe … one day … when I’m good enough…”
I have a hard time getting right in my head, but here and there I see little glimpses of a truth: that I am conflating this current depression with reality, that I try to apply the misery to everything. sometimes something will flicker through, and when i see it, I know, wait, that is the truth. but i can’t hold on to it.
even now, even the last time I posted, there was this flicker, but i can’t quite articulate it. it was something along the lines of: this is a process. it takes times. you haven’t failed because you haven’t actually tried yet. you want to rush and crush each little effort and throw your hands in the air and beat your breast and cry … because that’s comfortable for you. because that’s familiar. because it allows you, ultimately, to do nothing at all but wail. … the tougher thing is to realize how long anything actually takes. and to acknowledge how little you’ve actually done.