The Court of Miracles might be Solla Sollew

I think of the subtle knife piercing through to Horton and Jojo’s thinks, above the Court of Miracles, and no one sees the monster I am.

I am having trouble in my mind, and I am past the point of tired. I no longer feel the exhaustion that I know weighs down my spirit. If I could sleep, it would help. Tomorrow would look so much better with rested eyes.

In 2004, I felt intimately connected to this song from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I saw a duet of Jim and I, similar to the battle over Neverland. I felt infused with Peter Pan’s incurable youth when I had fight in me, and identified with Quasimodo when I couldn’t argue with myself anymore. Jim was right, and I was stupid to fight. He held my life and the lives of my siblings, always telling me that he’d send Mom to prison and keep me with him forever. He brainwashed me to think it was my fault-I was the enemy, the reason for such vice in the world. No wonder I fell headfirst into such a tight religious system as a teenager.

This morning, I had the latter part of the song stuck in my head. I see hope in the future now, and while Jim’s voice still softly echoes through the rafters of my head, I am spoiled by sunlight. I can’t go back now.

Tonight I saw a potential in myself that made me sick. I suddenly find the solid ground beneath my feet to be shifting sand, and I’m afraid. Sleep might well help this condition. I’m just overly tired.

Right?

Sleeping invites terror, and new movies haven’t drowned the nightmares in my mind. I soak my brain in horror films, hoping to find images that will bore my own horrors away. Jessabelle made me homesick, and Honeymoon helped me get a GoT fix, but nothing to keep me up at night. Instead my own demons keep me company, smoke all my pot, and eat my cookies. Assholes.

I miss Gemma, and crave her temperamental nature. I want to hear about fleeing through the markets of India, see new senses tingle through her body, and smell sweat in the night air. Eleanor rides hard through the misty moors in my mind…I made a writing schedule again. I started following some authors I like, and it’s encouraging. There’s no reason I can’t write alongside. I just have to get off my ass. For more than bursts of 10-15 productive days and then 8-10 days of abject self-destruction. At least I have a process? Or I’m just making brownies a la Under the Tuscan Sun.

I’ve got 6 hours I can log, if I fall asleep in twenty minutes. I didn’t eat dinner…oops…I got these on sale today…and lunchmeat. That would count as a sandwich, which totally counts as meal-like food. Ok, gotta make that happen. And gotta send this card to Ma-Ma  that is funny, and Allison’s bday card is late, too…I was gonna be productive tonight and instead I flipped my shit.

Jim may echo in my head forever, but at least I have other sounds in the dark. Kimberley tells me to chill the fuck out. I miss her so much. So many topics lately leave me feeling isolated; no one will understand. I don’t understand. Even if Kimberley didn’t understand, she’d have ideas. We worked together to find information, new tools to hammer out my crazy.

The radiator clicks in the night and I wake up afraid and unsure of where I am. How old am I? Where is my body? What is he hitting? Where are the kids? I hear it bleed through my dreams. It’s messing with my head. I am using old mantras, reminding myself that he’s dead. Jim’s dead. I’m safe. I’m a grown woman in my own home, surrounded by friends, love, and support. I know it’s true, but the noises in the dark scare my reason away.

My fingertips are numb, cooler than my wrists, and I’m dizzy. I have to sleep. At least I ran errands and did laundry already today-tomorrow I always nap through my break.

Ok, here’s the plan: food, water, bed, safe movie on low in the background. Stay in bed until alarm goes off. Sleep will find you. Yeah…gonna make that happen. Goodnight, guys.

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