Rest in 2023

I’m exhausted.

Emotionally. Mentally. Physically somehow.

Sleep is elusive. I try to keep my same routine - climb into bed around 9pm, turn the TV on to a docu-series, play games on my phone until my meds kick in and I doze off.

I would try to stay awake until Chris came to bed around 11 or midnight, but I only succeeded half the time. He would lock the door, turn off all the lights, brush his teeth, and crawl in beside me, wrapping his arms around me for “cuds” (cuddles) before drifting off himself.

I’d wake in the night sometimes, long enough to turn off the TV and roll over to cuddle him.

I woke up that night, and turned off the TV. You were coughing in your sleep, but you had been for a few nights, so I shook you gently and you stopped, and started snoring again. I fell back asleep instantly. My stupid meds.

Did you wake up? Did you wake up after that? Why didn’t I wake up? I would have, I know I would have, if you’d tried to wake me.

Why were your eyes open? Half open. Why? I don’t know who to ask that. It makes me think you were awake, and laying there, dying, beside me, looking at me, and I didn’t know.

The guilt. So much guilt. It’s so heavy. So fucking heavy. I should have taken better care of you. I should have pushed harder. Tried harder. I should have woken up. I could have given you CPR or whatever stops a heart attack.

I ate today. A slice of pizza but .. its something I guess. In 7 days. How has it been 7 days? A week without you? How much longer without you?

I keep waiting for you to crawl in to bed with me.