Morning in Disturbia

Every morning upon waking when I’m lying there, alone, again, finding the guts to get out of bed I’m gripped by two thoughts. They are so opposite and so conflicting that the bafflement they propose leaves me stunted, with my face down and scrunched against the pillow, bare arm flesh wrapped above my head. Being hungover - understandably - only makes it worse; it only serves to amplify these thoughts.

                My first thought is the worrying one. It’s negative, down-beat, heart wrenching; but it is always first. It’s the fact that I’m shocked that I’ve woken up to another day. It’s almost as if I expected to die during the night without consciously thinking about it. Isn’t that depressing? – to find yourself so surprised that you’ve made it through to start another day. “I’m alive,” I will generally mumble to myself.

                The second I don’t find so troubling. In fact, it’s probably testament to my positive get-up-and-go attitude. As I shuffle into a slouched-but-seated position I’ll think ‘another day to get on with,’ as I pull something from the bedside stack to read. Whether or not I waste the day is another question; not one for you or for me to answer, as much as we may want to.

                I’m probably not the best person to have around for the benefit of my sanity. I feel there is a constant duel deep inside somewhere; the desire to live, but an acceptance of death simultaneously; a voice that screams to be sober and well, but another that wants to get so stoned I’ll become part of the sofa; someone that wants to travel, but to be home also; someone that wants to talk until I get a headrush, but also to take my silence and never to talk again, ever.

                This, dear reader, is morning in disturbia. A person in constant conflict with their own life.