I'm Convinced

This is hell. Not in that figurative "I'm having a hard time" way. No, this IS hell. If we create our own hells in which to descend as punishment for whatever transgressions we have committed, I am convinced that this is mine. Convinced.

I have to be up in 2 hours. I haven't slept, and I most likely won't sleep. Even if I fall asleep after the writing of this post, I'll have only slept, you know, 2 hours. I will then have to drive my mother nearly an hour to where we're going, sit there and wait for her to come out of surgery, drive her nearly an hour back home, and somehow drive the hour and a half back to my own house without dropping dead in my tracks. Oh, and I still need to work tonight.

You see, one thing we crazies need is sleep. *Regular* sleep. It's pretty much accepted as conclusive that sleep deprivation will trigger manic or ugly mixed states. Another thing that's been pretty well proven is that crazies are a lot more sensitive to changes in both sleep patterns and in the sleep environment. We need cool, dark, quiet, comfortable places in which to recharge our misfiring brains.

I can have this at home. Well, mostly. I need some room-darkening shades, but if I'm able to fall asleep before dawn, the light doesn't bother me. It tends to be quiet, at least until the neighbors get up, and I always keep the house cool. And comfortable? Oh, God, my mattress is probably the only truly nice thing I've ever owned. I paid $800 for it five years ago. It was on sale for half-price, and I had a job that paid better then, so I bought it. If my house catches on fire, I am coming out with that mattress thrown over my back.

But here? The house is hot. Ridiculously hot. I keep the thermostat in my small apartment set on 68. The thermostat in this big-ass house is set on, like, 74. Maybe 72 if I'm lucky. There are those stupid solar-charged candles burning in the windows like fucking beacons in the night, and I don't know how to get the batteries out of them. This mattress is the most uncomfortable thing on the face of the planet. And, to add insult to injury, it's a windy night, and there are at least four wind chimes on the front porch. (For the record, if you opened the window in this room, you'd step out on the porch.)

This. Is. Hell. I'm fully expecting Satan to drop by and ask me how I'm enjoying my stay.

And the kicker? My daddy got home today, so she didn't really even need me here to take her to the damn surgery, but since I'm here, she's going to make me do it, anyway.

I'll spend the next week trying to get my sleep schedule and mood straightened out. I hate how the rest of the world doesn't realize how important it is for me to sleep like I need to. I'm sorry that I run on a different schedule than everyone else, but that's how I make my money, by working when the rest of the world is sleeping. I can't just invert that at the drop of a hat. And so now I'll be trying not to fall asleep at the wheel today and not to go batshit for the rest of the week...all for something I wasn't fucking needed for in the first place.

But I go on. Because I don't have a choice. What's screwing up the whole regimen that keeps me sane when you can make me do whatever you want, right?

Oh, hello, Mr. Devil. How are you? I'm lovely, thank you. Yes, my stay in Hell has been quite nice. I really appreciate you asking.