After Midnight

by Noise Pollution

I feel like shit.

I always do, this late at night.

Well, always is a bit of a misleading term. It didn’t used to be this way. In fact, the love of this time of night that I used to have is probably a major contributing factor of why I can’t fucking sleep until far past it.

It’s just not fun anymore. I’m alone. I’m alone. Even if I were to go and buy drugs or alcohol, I’m still fucking alone. And there’s no hour of the day that I feel more alone than right after midnight. Everyone in the house is asleep but me. And even if they weren’t, I’d still feel lonely. Because my loneliness has little to do with the actual number of people I interact with on a day to day basis. It’s something deeper than that. I can’t really explain what it is. It’s just hard not to feel incredibly lonely, even when I’m not alone.

So yeah. I feel alone. And I feel all of the bitterness that I ever feel. Every answer to every question becomes an angry one; there is no innocence after midnight. No one is free from fault. There’s blood on everyone’s hands. I’m a lazy piece of human trash. She’s a lying, superficial thing. She’s a thing because human beings shouldn’t be nearly as flip about things as she is. But whatever. It doesn’t matter. Everything happened so long ago now. Everything that ever mattered happened so long ago. Nothing matters, now. Nothing in the last two years matters, short of maybe my trip to the hospital. There’s no meaning in anything else. The last two years could be gone. It could be 2013 again, and I wouldn’t have lost all that much.

Not that there’s regret there. I’m so fucking tired. And no, not because it’s after midnight. It’s a different type of tired. It’s an exhaustion of emotion. I hate being so down, but there’s no where else to be. I won’t ever be happy, because that emotion belongs to someone else. Someone very, very different from me. All I get are fleeting moments of excitement and hope, all of which are quickly followed by a sense of despair. Perhaps I’m a pessimist. Maybe that’s the right way to be?

What value is there in being happy? Doesn’t it just make being sad worse? Does being sad make being happy better? Is this expectation I have of feeling happy all just a societal construct and the term is actually meaningless? Should I be searching for contentment? I hate contentment. Contentment is like the privileged side of apathy. It’s a feeling you earn and actively choose to have inside you, whereas apathy is something that gloms onto you and consumes your very being. I will not search for contentment.

I’ve been rambling on about nothing for a while now. That’s what this time of day does to me.

I had a fucking horrible panic attack yesterday. It wasn’t one of the worst I’ve ever had, but it was a nice reminder that fear is always lurking around the corner. I will never, ever escape the feeling of terror, no matter how medicated and/or stable I am. The panic can come out of nowhere, and can sit inside of me for hours before I finally let it consume me and the tears start flowing. Once the feelings start, there’s no way to stop them. I can postpone them, but eventually they will become me. Eventually I will fail to form sentences. Then I will fail to form words. Then I will breathe irregularly and cry until it goes away. When it does go away, a little bit of it lingers behind. I’ll see you next time, it will say to me, from to pit of my stomach. It will take everything in me to stay away from razorblades for the rest of the day. And I will be shaken up by it for weeks.

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