They say that the best revenge is living a good life. They fail to mention how difficult that simple adage can be to follow. Especially when I’m losing sleep, I’m stressing out, I’m barely keeping my head above water because I’m drowning in rage.

I cannot describe how angry I am that the former husband still makes me this mad. Mad as in suitable for a madhouse, mad as in please don’t test my temper, both, likewise, whatever.

Last night, I had my very first bout with sleep paralysis. It literally feels like something is holding you down against the bed, you can’t move, you can barely breathe. I felt phantom hands crawling over me and grabbing me and pulling me down to hell. Very unsettling.

Now I’m attempting to write my feelings, because staying awake until 3, having a nightmarish night, and then trying to sleep the night after you had an incubus on your chest is fucking difficult.

I should head to bed.

I should be sleeping with a smile because I’m no longer in an emotionally abusive relationship, and cut ties with shitty friends, and moved out of a house that did nothing but hold me back. Yet I sit here typing, wide awake. I can still mull over these feeble words for another good hour and a half and still be asleep before I made it there last night, but that seems like a horrific idea.

The fact that I would feel better if a certain someone else, however awful a person, was feeling as bad as I did…that’s a bad feeling. It’s not something I want to be.

But there’s no closure. There’s not a drop of it in a vast ocean of grumbly tummies, tearful nights, tiring days, forced cheerful interactions with well-intentioned acquaintances, feeling broken and fucking BORING because I can’t shut up about someone who is very clearly Over It. Every time I think I’m moving away from feeling so wretched, something sucks me back into an undertow.

And I know you’re sick of hearing about this, loyal reader, because frankly I’m sick of feeling it. I know just enough about human nature to be a goddamn danger, because I’m feeling this all in the moment and maybe, just maybe, bottling was a good idea from the very start, but it’s too late now. The floodgates aren’t just open, they were never fucking installed in the first place.

I also can’t NOT handle this, because it’s happening and it’s my damn life. I’d love to say I refuse to lose this fight, but the fact is that when you’re cornered by grief, you don’t fight your way back to sunlight because you’re brave, you just happen to claw blindly towards the light in a panic. Because the dark is worse. Because the dark is something you don’t come back from once you give up.

I’d rather be bruised and bloody than beaten and bitter.

The anger, though, is suffocating my flame. I need some source of fresh air, and I’m at a loss as to where to find this literal inspiration.

As for now, I need to sleep. Hopefully rest, too. Not another night of terrors and my own personal lineup of demons. Serenity, courage, wisdom, etc.

One night at a time, loyal reader. Be patient with me, and I will try to do the same.