My pulse is 107. I turned out the lights a half hour ago. I felt tired, I always feel tired. As soon as my eyes closed, my body turned into a machine. My arms, legs, stomach…all mimicked my quick heartbeat. I sensed the blood pumping through my body, pulsating at an accelerating pace. I opened my eyes and turned on my glowing thermometer. Sixty-six degrees, but I was too warm for comfort. Finally, I climbed out of bed to take my blood pressure: 137/84, with a pulse of 107.
November has been a rough month, and Sunday night sleep deprivation is one of many symptoms I have incurred as a result of just trying to get by. I am gaining weight, my mood is irritable and unpredictable, and when I do sleep, I have nightmares. I never could write fiction, but if I wrote down some of my dreams, I might be able to conquer every genre. Historical fiction, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, all complete with necessary horror…my blog might become a guilty pleasure full of disturbing tales I live night after night.
This month has been filled with rejection, betrayal, and dishonesty. New and exciting adventures turned into terribly hurtful situations. The kind people say, “You’ll learn from this,” but the only thing you learn is to trust people less. The only lesson is lowered expectations and growing pessimism. These so called “life experiences” that are all part of “growing up” are supposed to make me stronger, when really they tear apart my muscles and I can’t even keep my hands still.
I am the only fixed variable in these equations. Continuously blessed with opportunities, I cannot, in good conscious, claim that by chance I am always the victim. Coincidences like that do not exist. Somewhere in each of these seemingly happy, carefree storylines, I am making errors that cause my romantic comedy to turn into a dramatic tragedy. But blaming myself is just as unproductive as blaming everyone else. No matter who takes the responsibility, I am still here, awake on a Sunday night, filled with an unnaturally strong heartbeat.
I thought redecorating would do the trick, and the presence of immense purple did comfort me temporarily. But new curtains do not change the fact that at the beginning of this month, I was going to have a roommate, now I am not; I was going to be in a serious relationship, now I am not; I was going to take on a leadership position in an organization in which I truly believe, now I am not; I was going to enjoy the cold autumn air and anticipate December, but I am not enjoying anything.
Usually I like to end my entries with a realization, a come-to-Jesus moment that ties up the loose ends, solves my problems and pushes me forward. But I won’t be coming to Jesus anytime soon, I fear. My resting heart rate is much too high to consider such a long journey.