I'm laying on the bed, in the dark, taking in everything that's going on around me. Or rather, not going on.
11pm and the three lodgers in my room (I call dibs since I am technically the first occupant, it being my family home) are all snoring - YES, all.
When I first moved in here, I was beyond happy because it was my first own, mine-all-mine room.
I fussed over every detail and got so upset when the contractor got the colours of my customised shelves mixed up. In our recent home reno, my green shelves which used to be lined with my books and CDs has been torn down. Blame it on a certain little person who kept jumping on the bed and bopping her head. Hard.
From my single bed, the room has seen an upgrade to a queen bed and cot, but now we've rid the crib and four of us contort ourselves in the awkwardest positions, somehow making it through the night. In my case: Barely.
When I was in secondary school, I used to have to sneak in phone calls to and from friends in the dark. I even had to turn off the ringer on my parents' room phone every night so my friends could call me without them knowing. That was probably the baddest I was. (Hashtag: Epic fail pot shot at being a rebel.)
These nights, I still sneak around when the lights are out but it's because I don't want to disturb the said three occupants, especially the smallest one who has a laptop radar. Every time I turn on the laptop, she wakes up!
So I end up doing work and catching up on blogs, fb and ig in complete darkness on my mobile. My eyes are going to fail me sooner rather than later.............
Another common occurrence that has also happened of late, are the heavy thoughts that fill (and sometimes overwhelm) me under the cloak of darkness. Too many family tragedies - as it is, one is one too many - and so many other worries weighing on my mind. When people ask baddies in movies how they sleep at night (when they should be so awash with guilt), I wonder if what I'm feeling is what they are supposed to feel like.
My uncle who lost his wife (my aunty, duh) told his sister (another aunty, even more duh) who lost her only son, that the nights are the hardest. If I'm already feeling this melancholic at night, I can't even begin to think how they must be feeling.
But it's true: In the dead of the night, when the buzz of the day has lessened and the excitement where light falls has quietened, when you are at peace and about to doze off, the sense of dread and helplessness creeps up silently and jabs you straight in the heart. The pain, oh, that pain is so vivid, so cruel and jagged that it seems impossible to bear for yet another second. Your heart cries out and every fibre of your being loses its strength. You feel like a ragdoll that has been tossed around good by a class of overzealous preschoolers.
If I'm lucky, relief (and release) comes in the form of tears. But mostly, I just continue laying in bed, letting my eyes wander around the room as I reminisce happier times the room/house has seen until I find myself staring at the blinds and willing my vision to go on past to the empty, darker sky. There are no more tears to cry. My comfort will have to come from unreciprocated hugs, from whomever is closest to me in bed that night.
Then tomorrow will come. A brand new day, brimming with so much hope and fresh opportunities to pick myself up. Until the black of the night, I find myself succumbing again. And the nagging thought that never disappears: What about them?
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