Glass

         The blinking light on the computer screen wakes her up, though it’s near invisible from her position on the bed.  Pushing back the covers and rolling out of bed, she pads to the computer, carefully dodging the mess on the floor.  A light is out of the question, too much chance of waking someone up.
         “ok i have reason to believe your awake…. so are you ok?”
         That’s what the message says.  She has neither the energy nor the motivation to answer so she crawls back into bed, six hours left til she has to face the world again.
         She has no idea how long she lies there, fitfully turning, mind in overdrive.  And no matter what she does, she just can’t get warm.  Thoughts spiral in her head, randomly lashing out at her like angry jack-in-the-boxes.  But they’re not the thoughts she needs to think.  She doesn’t know how to let herself feel.  She’s just so tired, all the time.
                    Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
      7 am, off goes alarm number one.  She turns it off after two rings. 7:22, she checks the clock. 7:25, another alarm goes off, not hers though.  It’s shut off after five long, nauseating rings.  7:30, her second alarm.  The phone is always so loud.  She jumps out of bed just to make the noise stop, it’s so painful.  Then, crawling back in bed, she waits for her turn in the bathroom.  The night was so long, yet she doesn’t feel rested at all.
      Four hours later she returns.  She has six hours before the world demands her presence again.  A presence that grows ever more painful every time she’s exposed, though she can’t feel it then.
         Nine hours exposed, six to go.  Then maybe she’ll be free, but it won’t be any easier to move on.
                      Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
         She mastered the art of building an emotional wall.  It’s a talent she’s had since she came out of the womb.  Before she ever had reason, she kept people out, she didn’t trust, but she was safe.  She let it down just once, and now she’s paying the consequences.  It rebuilt itself entirely without her permission and she doesn’t know how to take it down.  Part of her doesn’t want to; she’s safe inside: no one can hurt her.  But she knows she has to.  She doesn’t want to live her life afraid, afraid to trust and to let people in.  She wants to be human.
         Every second she spends thinking another brick is added, it’s ever growing higher.  Maybe it’s not made of brick but diamond; is there anything harder than that?  No, it’s made of glass.  It can be broken down, but not without injuring her as well.  And now she’s surrounded herself again.  However, the glass is clear, she can see what she’s missing.  A thick circle of glass, with barely enough room inside for her to sit, hugging her knees.  It’s suffocating.  She’s never felt more tired in her life.
                      Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
         She returns to bed.  Lately it’s her only form of escape.  She’s safe, and as long as she can make herself sleep she doesn’t have to think.  Think about how much it hurts, why it hurts, why she can’t feel it.  She knows it hurts, worse than anything she’s ever felt, but the wall’s too strong, it won’t let her feel it.  She’ll never get over it if she can’t recognize it.  The only reason she isn’t working harder to fight the wall is her inevitable exposure.  She’s built it so well that when she is exposed she can almost make herself think she’s okay.  It’s when she’s not, when she can’t avoid anymore, that she tries to deal with the pain.  The sudden exposures, the ones she hasn’t had time to prepare herself for, those kill.  It’s all she can do to fight the instincts to throw up, or hide.  She lies there thinking on all this.
                      Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
         She can’t validate her own feelings.  Her head knows she has a right to be in as much pain as she is, but her heart can’t seem to allow her to.  She’s battling back and forth.  She’s been told to cry.  She needs to grieve before she can get over anything.  But the most she’s ever able to squeeze out is two tears before the wall goes back up.  Sometimes she’s too tired to fight it.  She wants to cry, she wants to be human.
         She still doesn’t know what it is that hurts so much, which part that’s leaving her so paralyzed.  There’s just so much.  It’s so heavy.  She can’t imagine how she hasn’t been crushed yet.
                      Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
         She manages to fall asleep now.  All she wants to do is sleep.  The only time she isn’t thinking about the pain.
         They’re all worried.  They tell her they love her, to let herself be hurt.  They promise to teach her how, and how to cry.  They want to help her get over it.  They want her to come back.
         She’s lost in this sea of anguish.  This pain has taken too much time already.  How much more until she can realize it?  How much more until she can heal?
         The fourth alarm goes off, 5:45 pm, time for exposure.  She gets up to get ready, her stomach churning already.  What if tonight her wall fails?
                      Is it possible to be so numb and yet hurt so much at the same time?
         Three hours later she returns, crawling into bed once more.  She sits, curled up, looking out the window.  Her head pounds and her stomach churns.  All her defenses are worn out, but she still can’t cry.  Is there a name for this kind of exhaustion?  It hurts so much but she knows she’s numb.  How much will it actually hurt when she’s finally able to let it?
         She prepares for another night of endless thoughts.  She’s just waiting for those few hours when she’s escaped.
         “Maybe I won’t wake up.” And she pulls the covers over her head.