Nighttime Neurosis

Thoughts. A raging avalanche of them. They buzzed around in her head continuously; forming, revolving, dissipating into nothing, blurring into each other, stirring up a rampant cacophony of emotion within her that was impossible to bear, or make sense of.
She hated it. She wanted to clutch her head in agony and force it to stop whirring. She wanted silence, a long, tranquil silence that would for once just let her be. But nothing she did could help. It was all right during the day, when she had her work and her books and her computer to keep occupied. She could even flip on the television and tune out of her mind completely, instead engrossing herself in the charming lyrics of the songs she loved, or the fascinating lives of the characters on screen. But when the day faded away and the last light had been put out in the house as everyone turned in, there was no escape.
They thronged then, her thoughts. Like devotees to a holy shrine; like desperate druggies to a rave party; pushing, shoving, jostling for space, unmindful of the stampede they created. They are conflicting and complex, overwhelming, confusing, menacing, mocking. They are deep and dark and loud; taunting, daunting, haunting, each clamoring to be heard over the others, ultimately forcing her into a sort of petrified trance, where, oblivious to all sensation, she can hear each and every one of them play out, she can perceive the interconnections between them, the way they mingle with each other and collectively snigger at her, torment her, torture her, hurt her. Until she can take it no longer and the tears leak out, one at a time first, but soon growing into hot torrents of saltwater that gush out unendingly, streaking her face, rolling onto and moistening the pillow that she clutches close, as if clinging on for dear life.
She thinks a lot about it, life. About how maliciously hilarious it is. Simple, yet posing to be so complex. Like chemistry. She mulls over how people are like the elements, each unique, yet somehow relative to the others, continually mingling and bonding and reacting to form the compounds that they termed relationships. Some of the compounds are simple, some more complex, some intricate chains, some useful, some indispensable, some toxic, some waste. There is always pandemonium, with endothermic and exothermic reactions taking place all the time, disturbing the equilibrium that is so difficult to maintain. No one is at rest. They are all eager to keep going. Each person is a type – an ion or catalyst or free radical, ready to react.
She thinks of how fickle they could be, people and their relationships. The bonds could break anytime, just as easily as they formed, sometimes of their own accord, sometimes through effect of external factors, like time and other people. She thinks of the bonds in her own life, the existing ones and the severed ones, the old ones and the worn ones, the time-tested and the faulty ones, the ones she tries so desperately to forge but can’t, the ones she wants to hold onto so dearly but shan’t, the ones she needs so desperately but mustn’t. They form a complicated web, the people and relationships in her life. A web she is trapped and entangled in, struggling to find a way out but failing. Helpless. Perhaps she will remain trapped, even more so, till death comes to the rescue.
She thinks quite a bit about that too, death. About how tragically mystical it is. Inevitable, yet posing to be so avoidable. Like an accident. She thinks of the people that she has lost to the ‘accident’. They are not many, but they were all so special, so integral to her existence. She wonders if perhaps they are right there with her, in the pressing, foreboding darkness. Perhaps their spirits surround her, watching silently as she struggles and ponders and tries to comes to terms with the complexities and ironies and contradictions and hypocrisies of the world she lives in. She can imagine her grandma, perched beside her on the bed, tenderly laying a hand upon her forehand and telling her to hush, for it will all be just fine in the end; she has no need to worry and fret. She can see her aunt too, her face alight and smiling, the way it had been before the cancer struck. ‘You don’t need to change yourself for anything, darling,’ her aunt would say. ‘We love you just the way you are.’
‘But he doesn’t.’ she thinks, her heart wrenching in angst. ‘He doesn’t love me.’ Images of the dead are replaced by his. How she aches for him. If only she could convince him, how much she cares, how much she needs him. If only she could throw her arms around him and beg him to listen to her, to believe her when she vows that she loves him more than anyone ever could. That she will love him forever and cannot live without him.
The sobs intensify, choking her up. She can’t breathe. It just hurts so much. Life. And death. Her thoughts return to the latter. She thinks of the friend she had lost, at an age where she didn’t even understand the gravity of loss. Why had her friend died so young? Surely, nothing could make up for such horrific injustice? How could God be so cruel? Why could he be so cruel and get away with it? WHY. The question bounces around her head like a sneering poltergeist hell bent on torturing her.
She wishes they would reach out from the dark and embrace her; the ghosts that she imagines lurk around her. She wishes they would pull her into their midst and envelop her in the tranquil nothingness of their world, where she could float around untroubled, at last free from the misery, the endless turmoil that God puts her through day in day out.
The sobs rack her body; she struggles to smother them, heaving with sorrow. Oh, why must she think so much? Why must she so relentlessly relive a past she has long made her peace with but which refuses to let her be? Why must the future play hide and seek with her, dancing before her tantalizingly yet disappearing with a laugh the moment she reaches out to clinch it in her fingers? Why can’t she be at peace, like all the other people around her, who sleep soundlessly, lost in pleasant dreams of their secret desires? People who will rise the next morning and go about their work as usual, forgetting everything about the night that has passed, looking forward to the night that will come when they can once again escape into their blissful, sinful unconscious.
She would do anything for their kind of delightful slumber to take over her the minute she lay her head down every night. But it never does, no matter how drained she is. It takes its own sweet time, coming slow and steady, only after her thoughts finally tire of their psychedelic sound and light show and settle down within her, leaving her exhausted and pained and begging for respite. It is only when she has not one ounce of energy left that sleep at last washes over her, bringing quietude to her weary soul, making her body go lax and letting the tears run dry.
But it is temporary, the respite. The ordeal will start all over again tomorrow when the sunshine filters into her room and startles her awake well before she is quite ready or refreshed. The thoughts will resume their dizzying rumba, her heart will sink like an overloaded raft, the tears will flow like flooding rivers, the struggle will continue. In a vicious cycle.
Perhaps she needs a psychiatrist. That is what they would certainly tell her, whomever she dared to confide in about her nighttime neurosis. 'Psychologist', she would correct. 'It's a neurosis not psychosis.' They would not know the difference, nor care to try and understand it. But she knows the difference, all too well. She has read about it, and about what happens to her too. And she knows that a psychologist will do her no good. After all, she is one herself.