nothingbutcries

[nothingbutcries]

How do I sleep at night?

In the velvety shroud of night, I have always found my solace. A nocturnal creature from birth, I arrived in the world at 10:03 pm, a sign perhaps, of the path my life would take. Even as a mere toddler of one or two, my parents recognized my affinity for the nighttime hours, a time when others slumbered, and I, wide-eyed and full of vigor, would wander to the living room, content to play in the silent darkness, my only companion the moon's gentle glow.

Nearly three decades have passed since those early years, yet the rhythm of my nights remains unchanged. Despite the passage of time, the demands of work, and the weariness that creeps into my bones, I find myself unable to succumb to sleep's embrace when night falls. I have sought solace in pills, in potions, in the whispered promises of sleep aids, but their effects elude me. Gabanite, touted as a sleeping elixir, proves ineffective, while magnesium glycinate, with its supposed powers to ease tension and invite restful slumber, offers no respite. I seek a more effective, genuine sleeping medication that is clinically and scientifically proven.

Each night becomes a battleground, my body and mind locked in a relentless dance. My thoughts, like a spirited stallion, race through my mind, refusing to be tamed. It is a maddening cycle, this nightly pursuit, leaving me weary and yearning for the simple pleasure of uninterrupted sleep.

I yearn for the solace of slumber, where I may briefly elude the harshness of this world. Each additional hour of sleep grants me a reprieve, allowing my dreams to unfurl a little longer. To be enveloped in unconsciousness, to surrender to the embrace of the bed and simply rest, is a luxury beyond compare. I envy those who effortlessly slip into sleep.

With only a scant few hours of rest each night, I find myself awake for nearly twenty hours a day. Twenty hours of relentless contemplation, of thoughts swirling like a tempest in my mind. It is a relentless cycle, a marathon of cognition that leaves me longing for the tranquility of sleep.

In the depths of exhaustion, where body and mind converge in weariness, the quest for sleep becomes a desperate yearning. Each fiber of my being, from the sinews of my body to the tendrils of my thoughts, calls out for the sweet embrace of slumber. How, then, do I coax this elusive visitor to my bedside?

In this realm of perpetual wakefulness, where the world is a blur of relentless activity, I seek solace in the sanctuary of sleep. I long to drift into unconsciousness, to surrender to the soft whispers of the night and let go of the weight of wakefulness. Yet, despite my weariness, sleep remains elusive, a fleeting shadow that dances at the edge of my consciousness.

How do I sleep, you ask? I wish I had an answer. Perhaps it lies in the gentle rhythms of a bedtime ritual, in the soothing caress of a cool pillow, or in the whispered lullabies of the night. Or perhaps, in the end, it is simply a matter of surrendering to the darkness, trusting that sleep will find me when my heart is full, when my heart is at peace, and when my heart is ready to embrace the gentle caress of dreams. And so, I wait, with open arms and a hopeful heart, knowing that when the moment is right, sleep will come, like a gentle breeze on a summer night, to cradle me in its comforting arms and carry me away to the land of dreams.

[nothingbutcries]

I didn't intend to write; solitude with my thoughts was my craving. Yet, I know myself too well to be consumed by the labyrinth of my mind. I'm not merely sad; I'm devastated. How could fate deal me this blow again? Why must I endure this torment once more? Have I always fallen short? In what aspect do I lack? Self-esteem has been a stranger to me, never finding myself adorned with the belief of being pretty or beautiful. This recent event only deepens my despair.

How could you inflict this upon me? Trust was a hard-earned lesson for me, one that you callously discarded as though it hadn't taken me years to rebuild. Eight years—it took me eight years to mend myself, to cultivate love, trust, and a semblance of joy, to cease being my harshest critic... all seemingly in vain. I should have maintained my guard, should have realized that not even my husband could wound me. Titles mean naught when actions betray love. If he truly cherished me, he wouldn't have caused this hurt.

I thought I had found my soul's counterpart, a man who would never harm me. A man who would handle my heart with care, knowing it's a fragile glass, glued together from being shattered one time too many. Yet, I was a fool once again, believing in a mirage of love and safety.

I became aware of your actions when I suspected something during a nap while we were on a video call. I saw what you were looking at, and it deeply wounded me. I expressed my hurt, but you assured me it was nothing, refusing to admit to your actions. I chose to let it slide. We had spent so much time together, and on the day you departed for Thailand, you succumbed to it. I felt diminished as a woman, reduced to a mere object. Initially, I didn't want to make a fuss. We were still new, still navigating each other. Who was I to pass judgment? I loved you so intensely that I convinced myself it wasn't a serious issue.

I witnessed it again and again but remained silent. During the early stages of our relationship, I may have caught you twice, and just before our marriage, I saw it once more. Each time, I reassured myself, saying, "It's alright. It's alright. It's alright." I reasoned that perhaps you were stressed from the wedding planning—a planning process that was left almost entirely to me to manage.

After we married, I discovered it once more, this time with names attached. You thought you could hide it from me, but I've experienced betrayal far too often to miss the signs of deceit. I am your wife. You chose me. Why did you choose to hurt me?

We've only just embarked on our third month of marriage, yet it feels like an eternity has passed. I've felt the weight of expectations pressing down on me: the need to dress impeccably, to adhere to the rituals of prayer, to conceive, to adorn myself with gold trinkets daily, to spend every weekend engulfed in your family's multitude of events.

You ventured out with my family once, and it seemed as though you sought exclusion, a detachment from becoming part of my world. The scales of our relationship feel unbalanced. Although I dislike social outings, I've attempted to join you and your family, concealing my distaste to avoid offending them. Yet, you displayed your discontent openly to my family, withdrawing into silence and isolation. I felt the weight of your expectations bearing down on me.

Out of respect, I ceased painting my nails and abandoned the bleach that once streaked my hair. Did you notice? Did your family? I opted for more modest attire, hoping to align with your family's values. Did you notice? Did your family? My father acknowledged my shift towards more conservative dressing, contrasting it with my past, yet your family continued to criticize my wardrobe choices. Their words cut deep.

I'm not ready for parenthood, neither emotionally nor financially. I refuse to subject my child to a life of scarcity, devoid of enriching experiences. Each encounter with your parents brings renewed pressure for us to start a family. It pains me deeply. I never asked for gold, let alone to wear it daily. It makes little sense for me to bedeck myself in gold trinkets for work or social gatherings. I'm not one for excessive adornment. Your mother's accusation that I begged for these adornments stings. I did not.

I remained silent, not wanting to disrespect you or your family. I molded myself to fit your desires and needs, conforming to your family's expectations. Only to discover you lying to my face, concealing secrets, erasing evidence, indulging in pleasures with others.

Never before have I felt such disrespect. You were aware of my past, my triggers, my worries, my fears, my anxieties, my traumas. Yet, you chose to act as you did. It's a brutal slap across my face, a sting that pierces deep. The pain is so intense, I feel as though I could fall into an abyss. But I've done no wrong. I refuse to bring hurt to my parents, who have witnessed my transformation. I changed for you, out of reverence for you as my husband. And for what? You disrespected me. What was the purpose of those changes? Who were they for?

That night, I felt fragments of myself shatter and crumble like dust. I fought tirelessly to mend myself, to grow, to trust. I fell in love again, I entered marriage, and just like that, trust vanished. Eight years to rebuild myself once more? Perhaps even longer. You were my husband; you knew the weight of your actions, the toll they would take, and yet you proceeded regardless.

I struggle to articulate the profound sense of insult I feel as a woman. Was I not enough for you? Was that also a falsehood? You told me I was beautiful; was that deception too? You spoke of my worth, urging me to recognize it; was that yet another lie? What worth is it that you could squander $30 on a stranger, a whore, while I, your wife, am apparently worth less than that?