It’s 1:04 am according to this iPad, and I just came back from going upstairs to get a rotigotine patch to stop the RLS from driving me mental. Too late, I’m afraid. Restless Leg Syndrome. My theory is it’s all tied to stress and PTSD.
I turned off the television in the master bedroom, thinking my wife was asleep. She was listening to the news, she said, from under the covers.
I head back downstairs where I can pace without waking the dogs. Walking is about the only way to keep the legs from kicking.
It had been a good day really, from the outside looking in. We actually had a nice time. A trip running errands to the mall, a dinner at the local bistro and then home. Not one for the memory books but…pleasant…that’s the best word.
Except the feeling of being down is pulling me further off course. I keep trying, but the depression is constant, I can’t seem to surface to catch a fresh breath of air. Drowning. I’m worried all the time. The greyness of depression seeps back in.
Not being able to sleep, I intended to write. Except the new computer decided not to turn on. Totally dead black screen.
And so, I went completely down the rabbit hole. Lost it. Ready to cry, ready to scream. Losing control. Spinning. This is my night. The hours seem to drag in the middle of the night, the clock moves in a real slow spin while you wait for the sun to come up.
I’m smart enough to avoid the garage, where the lethal logical voice can kick in and put an end to it.
Maybe I am still in flux after the doctors visit. Drained, but nervous energy keeps me up.
I’m tempted to go back upstairs, really wake her up, and tell her that I think I’ve gone insane.
I’m closer to the edge than ever before. Just wanting the night to end.