Nights like this
When the sun goes down and the silence of the world covers me, that’s when the real noise starts.
If you see me during the day. I’m functional, I smile, I encourage others, I meet deadlines. I’m an expert at pretending to be Okay. The day time is when I wear my mask. It’s a constant distraction that keeps the deep, heavy thoughts tucked away. It’s too bright, too busy, too many people who need me for me to really fall apart.
But then the night comes and there’s nowhere left to hide from myself. The darkness, stillness, and quiet magnify the pain. Every mistake, every moment of loss, every sharp word I've ever spoken and regretted—it all plays through my mind, demanding that I remember and feel it.
This is when the dam breaks. My mind won't be silent and I plant my face in the pillow to muffle the sound of my sniffles. That's when I allow myself to have the most honest, ugly release of my bottled up emotions. It's when the hurt feels the worst, the loneliness, the pain, it all comes crashing down on me at once. I sometimes hate the nighttime for bringing this unavoidable torment, but I also know it’s the only time I allow myself to be truly ME — the person who is still hurting, still grieving.
I know the morning will bring the mask again, and I’ll put myself back together piece by fragile piece. But right now, in the quiet of the night, I just need to cry until I’m too exhausted to cry anymore.
Tomorrow I will wake up, pull my shoulders back, smile, and subdue the constant pain with laughter.
Grief is a constant aching that is an everyday (night) fight. Every so often I find that releasing the pain is therapeutic. It hurts but it makes me remember that I am just a woman making a life after my life changed permanently and infinitely.
I continue to remind myself to Just Keep Going 🧚🏾♀️
