Over the Irish Sea

The last litre of rum hasn't even lasted a week.

This is probably not good. I don't really have a frame of reference. I don't really care. As coping mechanisms go, drinking is hardly the worst thing I could be doing. Hell, this is probably the most normal, the most socially-acceptable, coping mechanism that I have.

Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't. But the burn in the back of my throat is a sweet partner for the burning behind my eyes, and somehow it's easier to be broken when I'm wrecked to pieces.

I've often wondered which is the worst to deal with, insomnia or nightmares. Of course, sometimes the universe decides to throw both my way, just so I don't have to choose. It's a neat little love triangle we have going on. I haven't slept properly in over a month now. Even when I manage the hours, I still wake up without much inclination to drag myself out of bed.

Monday night the insomnia kept me up until half five, and then I woke at seven shaking and so drenched in sweat that at first I thought someone had thrown a bucket of water over me. The worst part was that I had no recollection of what I'd been dreaming. Sometimes, dreams, they slip away from you as the day goes on, and sometimes they come back to you in more details, but to not remember a thing, to have no idea what provoked that kind of a reaction, it's terrifying, it really is. And it leads to the hideous guessing game where I try to dredge up anything I can imagine such a dream could be. Last night at least I remembered the dreams, even if they woke me every couple of hours.

I am just so tired.