So Tired of Being

Tired.
Of being tired.

Two hours of tossing. And turning. And not sleeping.

One hour of vain attempts at productivity a.k.a. study/work. Ineffectual because, well, apparently not sleeping is slightly incapacitating. Quite the handicap.

One hour of further vain attempts at productivity a.k.a. sleep. I mean, try.

My pen could not keep up with my brain. So here I am again. Hello, blogger.
Typing madly. Because typing is faster than scribbling illegibly in my journal.

How is it that the mind attacks the body this way... to induce... insomnia. Or is it the soul that's revolting (in either the verbal or adjectival sense--take your pick). Maybe this merits a new tag; "psychosis" may be more apposite than "neurosis."

It's not like I don't try. I do and take everything that you say will help. I pay for your professional Dx. As to your Rx, I object. As mania is no healthier or more whole than depression, so the days at a time where I'd hibernate if society--and my roommates--permitted are no acceptable alternative to the consecutive sleepless nights.

Medicate or meditate? Beginning to lean to the latter... but how? M&M.
Maybe you need one first to be well enough for the other? Both, but one first? Which one?

Argh.

All the while, Psyche is further fractured. She clamors for Eros, because feeling... nothing... is no way to live. Sleepwalking is not waking. Wakeparalysis is not sleeping. The zombie, the robot... have only a semblance of life. Need heart. Need to feel. Need to sleep.

Once upon a time,
I would wake at this hour.
Now, I'm still awake.

God.

Who gives to His beloved sleep.
Ps 127.

Please. Mercy. Uncle. Father. Whatever.

Am Your beloved, Your creation, and You love me...
You have called me chosen for Your kingdom, unashamed to call me...

I will never doubt His promise

Though I doubt my heart, I doubt my eyes

My Deliverer is coming

I believe it!
Help my unbelief.