Tag Archive | tired

Night Words

Sometime in the night, I rose from my bed and typed – leaving my crazy behind a blinking cursor for me to find when the Sunday sun finally roused me.

I used to love waking up to the words that came in the night – these days, they reveal more of my angst. I suppose there is good in that, my subconscious acknowledgment of my conscious self may be therapeutic in some sense – if nothing else, it tells me I may need my meds tweaked.

11264860_10205425912140787_846952105131311168_nI’m tired, so very very tired. Tired of every day, tired of night, and tired of the in-between. Tired of hurts, so much of me hurts. My heart, (sometimes). My mind, my body, me.

I can’t seem to wake up, not enough to form proper thoughts, not in the way they ought to be thought. Not enough to remember to do the things that need to be done. Only awake enough to wonder “What was I meant to do today? Did I accomplish what I was supposed to yesterday?” Ha.

Awake enough to know I didn’t. Awake enough to think of the ones I let down by not following through – by not waking up enough to  . . . do . . . whatever I was meant to have done.

It’s crazy, I may be crazy, going a little more mad every day.

Unless I am pouring pieces of myself onto a page I seem to lose them, misplace them, leave them somewhere and forget how to find them again. I think I’m leaving the wrong pieces on the pages I keep scribbling with words and words and words . . . I may be leaving the wrong pieces.

I think I am a little lost, not completely, not just yet. I was going to leave a trail of breadcrumbs but I forgot. No matter, the monsters that shadow me would surely gobble them up like they do my thoughts, the important ones anyway. They leave the nonsensical ones, the unimportant ones – the scary ones for me.

Not much sustenance, just enough to allow me to survive.

People should stop listening to me. Stop counting on me and expecting me do what I say and know what I mean when it sounds like I do, because I don’t think I do anymore.

But  . . . wait. Maybe tomorrow I will – so please, if it isn’t already too late – maybe don’t give up on me, not just yet because I’m good at making promises and some of them I remember to keep and all of them I intend to and I think you remember a time when I did, minus the procrastinations and the delays I’ve always been guilty of . . . I am tired and rambling and just never-mind. I forgot what I was trying to say.


Seriously? Really? My brain – it fails.

Learning from experience . . . apparently, I don’t.

First the cup . . . FIRST.

First the cup . . . FIRST.


Last time it was worse . . .

*ish* day . . .


I keep telling myself I need to get up and do something at least relatively productive today. The problem is, I don’t much care for being told what to do, so I am rather at odds with myself at the moment. On one hand, I am trying to convince myself it’s my own personal desire to rise and be responsible, on the other, I am my own authority figure and feel the need to rebel.

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned it before, but in case you missed it, I’m not entirely crazy. I can’t be the only one with an ongoing, internal discourse in regard to how best spend the day ahead. At the heart of this particular issue is this, I’m tired. Physically, I’m awake, chipper even. Alright, that’s an exaggeration almost tantamount to a lie, but I am awake and in a fairly fair(ish) mood. It will be safe to remove the ish once I’ve finished my coffee, at least I am fairly certain(ish) it will be.

My current level of tired goes beyond the physical. I am weary in many ways at my very core. It’s like everything in me just realized it’s been running on empty for too long and the gears have ground to a halt. Maybe this is why I drink too much coffee. Perhaps I am feeding my fragile engine with the wrong fuel. Nah, it just needs something in addition to my beloved brew.

~ OR ~ I am just being lazy and all of this diatribical wordage is nothing more than me justifying my reluctance to do laundry.  *diatribical – it is a word today. If the dictionary can now include hashtag, I can play with my words as I wish. Octothorpe, by the way, it is an octothorpe. 

I’ve approximately two, possibly three more sips in my cup and am contemplating a second fix, oh, but that requires action on my part, it’s a worthy enough endeavor I suppose. Well worthy. I may make some tea in lieu of the java, sounds rather delightful actually. I was hoping my rambling would lead me and spur me forward in my quest for motivation, but thus far the most appealing thing I’ve come up with is sitting on the porch with my coffee, or tea, and losing myself completely between the pages of a book.

I may get dressed today, the probability of remaining in my pajamas is likely though, quite likely as a matter of fact since doing the wash has not yet made it to the top of my to-do list for the day. My cup is now emptied and a decision has to be made, I’m flipping a coin . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Reality Check

Going through the shoeboxes again . . . I distinctly remember the day I wrote this. I was tired. So, so, very tired. The week had been a whirlwind of medical appointments, two IEP meetings, my husband was out of town, my blood sugars were high, and my energy was low.

Autism was in charge and it’s sidekick Bipolar was running amuck. I was outnumbered and out of my mind – Thankfully, a little reality check pulled me back.

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

I remember reading something once about about people with unsinkable souls, I believe I am an unsinkable soul. I simply must be. If I weren’t, I certainly would have drowned in whatever sea of muck souls sometimes sink into long ago. I’ve felt myself being pulled under a few times, but I always manage to pull myself up for air. Sometimes, I even manage to find dry land.

I recall one particular night when my toes were just about to reach the bottom of this proverbial, soul-sinking pit, and I was ready to throw in the towel, search out a nice little cave and see if it was possible for a human to hibernate. Ultimately, I decided it sounded like too much work and made one last attempt to free my sinking soul from the murky depths by reaching for my pen.

Miraculously, I managed to pull myself up and I began to write. I was going to pour my heart out on the page. It was going to be a gloomy piece, a somber and sad work of words. It’s often said writing is a healing art. I’ve never doubted it to be anything but true, but I may have taken it for granted now and then.

On this night, as my tears fell to the yellow pad beneath my hand, transforming my words into water-color patches of blue, I was reminded of the awesome power writing holds. I did not pen a masterpiece that night. I did not create an epic tapestry of words that would go down in poetic history. It was not my best writing, nor was it the worst.

It was also not what I thought it would be when I began. It turned out to be something that dried my tears, made my husband laugh, and my children smile. Writing is a healing art.

Peace and quiet . . . Solitude and rest,
someone else to cook the meals, someone else to clean this mess.
Someone else to do the laundry and mediate the fights,
someone else to sweep and dust and get up and down all night.

Oh, for just one day, I need a little break,
I need someone to give, instead of take, take, take.
Let me have a little nap, for just an hour or two,
a rejuvenating rest sounds like a wonderful thing to do.

I’d love to take a shower till the hot water is all gone,
I simply can’t imagine staying in there for that long.
I could actually take the time, to shave my legs tonight,
and I’d love to go to bed sometime before midnight.

I could paint my nails or polish up my toes,
I could curl up on the couch and catch up on some shows.
I could read a book and maybe have a cup of tea.
I’m not trying to be selfish, I just need some time for me.


The kids say they are starving, they are on the brink of death,
you can’t make it down the hall unless you watch your step.
The dryer keeps on buzzing and someone just got punched,
I don’t think I’ll get to take that nap, but that is just a hunch.

I’m sure I’ll get to shower, sometime late tonight,
when the kids have given in to the sleep they like to fight.
The hot water will be gone between dear hubby and the dishes,
so I’ll keep that dream close to heart with all my other wishes

Maybe I’ll just shave my legs tomorrow or the next,
I’ll wait for a new razor, I think this one has been hexed.
Most my nails are broken so I’ll pass on that one too
the other stuff sounds nice, but I’ve got too many things to do.

Like drop from sheer exhaustion and drift off to sleep and dream,
of perfect little children and a house that’s always clean.


The morning sun has risen, a new day lay ahead,
and there’s a morning snuggle bug curled up in my bed.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him near my heart
I cannot think of a better way for a brand new day to start.

I really can’t imagine someone else to take my place,
and chance missing a precious little smile on a dirty little face.
The housework’s not that bad, not compared to other things,
like the joy and love and laughter having a family brings.

Crystal R. Cook

I rise and write.

Hendrick ter Brugghen - Old Man Writing by Candlelight

Hendrick ter Brugghen – Old Man Writing by Candlelight

When the sun settles for the night and the moon begins its reign, I rise and I write.

Insomnia is often a writer’s friend, perhaps even their only friend at times. It can also be an innocent and unintentional adversary. Many nights I have laid my head upon my pillow in hopes of drifting into dream. Instead, my mind begins to think on things I should have thought of throughout the day. Ideas and epiphanies chance moonlight visits to my conscious mind, begging me to rise and give them life upon a page.

Sonnets of silence serenade me with lullabies not meant to calm me to rest, but rather charm me to dream a thousand wakeful dreams. With my eyes open, pen in hand, word by beautiful word, they enchant me. A writer’s respite is not often found in the dark of night. Meandering minutes quickly turn to hours when a wandering muse beckons. When night retreats to the rising sun and the words silence to claim the sleep that was meant to be mine, it is time again to start another day.

Coffee in hand I stumble through, vowing not to stir again before the morning sun. I almost make myself believe I will slumber when the night comes, but when it does the seduction of solitude is too much to resist and I find myself once again, dancing with words across a page like lovers in a dream. I know too well the next day will be filled with weary eyes and a yawning, yearning for sleep.

Sometimes, when the night words come to steal my tomorrow, I refuse to play. When I do not heed their call, they whisper louder to lure me from my bed, knowing I will mourn their loss if I do not rise and claim them for my own. As a willing servant I follow and frolic just as I did the night before. Though happy to have the gift of them granted to me, I know there will be a price to pay, and I gladly pay it without pause.

There are moments I admit I have wished them gone. When my tired eyes blur and my head pounds in time with the beating of my heart, sometimes I wish them gone . . . but not really. Without them I would cease to exist, at least I fear I would. Every now and again, they retreat and sleep consumes me. I never fear their leave of me; they are silent and still only long enough for my body and mind to rejuvenate before they come again to play.

I welcome them and look to the light of the moon to guide our way through another night.

Crystal R. Cook

Not much of a morning person, especially in the mornings.

Not much of a morning person, especially in the mornings.

Morning came too soon today,
I wanna crawl back in my bed.
I wanna close my sleepy eyes,
and cover up my head.

There’s no rest for the weary,
at least that’s what they say.
I guess I’ll have to suck it up
and go on about my day.

I’ll make myself some coffee
just a pot or two,
then I must get started
on all I have to do.

I should tidy up the house
pay the bills now overdue,
decide what to make for dinner
and wash a load or two.

I haven’t dusted in a while
I should get that done,
no one else will do it
I guess I’m the only one.

Then again . . .

The mess will just return
later on today,
the bills are late already
what harm is one more day?

No one’s gonna starve to death
if I don’t cook and prep and bake,
they can forage in the pantry
for something they can make.

And if they truly wanted
their laundry done each day,
they’d put it in the bin
instead of where they lay.

So . . .

I’m goin’ back to bed
to close my sleepy eyes,
I’ll do it all tomorrow
when the sun begins to rise.

Crystal R. Cook