Oh, it a rare night of insomnia. However, they are not so rare. Perhaps,
once twice a week I don’t sleep through the night. Sometimes, I will sleep an hour or two, but many times it is several hours of thoughts tilt-a-whirling in my brain. 7 months, 25 weeks, 50 days, 400 lost hours of rest. How, I miss it.
How I miss all my luxuries. How, I empathize with my teens. I love them. I love them like I love my babies at Casa. Teenagers are nothing but my babies full-grown. Yesterday was a good day with them. I don’t know how that happened, but I can be transparent. I was able to tell them that honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know a lot.
I feel like I am ready for my own place. All I want is a door to slam in someone’s face and a bed. I dream of both, when I dream. Even the beds of others are uncomfortable. The truth? Well the truth is that I feel dirty. I cannot remember the last time I showered. Humiliating isn’t it? I don’t want to just use someone’s shower. I just want to stand under the downpour and pretend it is rain. I want to sit in the tub as water falls and weep. How badly I want to cry sometimes. Until, my eyes are parched and my soul quenched. I am not hopeless, but human. I am full of faith, but made of flesh. Have I not needs? How, I cry sometimes. As I park my car knowing this is my sole solitude of the day.
My heart sinks to think the holidays will be spent on a couch. I must prepare for these things. I know my faith waivers. Even now, my heart is set on celebrating a first coming of a returning King. Come now long-expected Jesus. Come Jesus. Your kingdom come. I can barely see past my own tears. I am tired of occupying someone else’s space. Great is my fretfulness. These things are hard to communicate orally. Nevertheless, they must make their escape.
I have no place to call home. I have no place to call my own. I’m homeless. I am dirty. I am homeless.
Right now all I want is a husband. I want someone to take care of me. I want to be held tightly and feel secure. I want him to be the protector. I want to be cared for. I want that baritone (or base or tenor) voiced reassurance that everything will be okay. I will be okay; often I am unsure. I want to feel delicate; I don’t want to be strong every second of the day. I am strong for my kids. I am strong as not to concern my friends. I am not that strong nor weak simply human.
Being far away from my family is scary. I miss my mom. I just want cry in her arms. I want to feel like a child. I am still, but a child. I want her to wrap me in her love. I want to breathe and inhale the perfume of her heritage and heart. I miss her and there is nothing I can do. I miss my brother and sister. I miss their support. I miss the way they knew me. I miss celebrating their birthdays. I miss talking to my sister and seeing her face. I miss my brothers humor. I hate that their lives go on without me there. When they mention names, I cannot recollect faces. I am an absentee daughter and absentee sister.
I am not sorrowful, simply weak.
I cannot type anymore as my eyes have lost their ability to focus. It is now 5:43am with 1 hour and 27 minutes until I arise.