Mornings

Eyes snap open.  It's already light, but still early.  The end of summer has that effect.  It gets light at 6 am and invades through the paper-thin blinds that serve only to block the view and not the light.  The glaring red digits of the alarm clock read 6:32, in that blocky print that is customary for digital clocks. 

28 minutes.

It's going to be another hellish day.  It always is.  No number of people or activities or encouragements can change the dread and anxiety building up. 

6:34
26 minutes.

What happens if I don't get up?  If I just lay in this bed under the covers and ignored the brash alarm.  If I let it go off until someone else stopped it.  Would it matter?  Who would be the first to give me a lecture because I didn't show up when I was supposed to? 

6:35
25 minutes.

Please don't.  Please let it just stop.  Pleading with time isn't going to do any good, but that's not a good enough reason to stop.  No more minutes ticking by, no 7:00, no getting up, getting dressed, dragging myself around for another day of hell.

6:38
22 minutes.

I can't.  I'll get up and drag myself through another hellish day and cry myself to sleep and do it all over again.  And again.  And again.  How much is too much?  How much can I hate it, fear it, agonize over it, before it tears me apart?

And they wonder why I don't want to go back.  Maybe because every morning for a number of months a year ago was spent locked in that exact same thought process.  Maybe because part of me hates the circumstances that are a breeding ground for such thoughts, much as another part of me loves them for everything else.  Maybe because those minutes before the alarm rings are among the worst parts of my life.  Maybe because I never want to have to do that again.  Maybe because I don't want to feel myself torn to shreds by circumstances outside of my control every single morning before I even have to do anything.

Does that make a little bit more sense now?