It's Hard To Sleep When I'm Yelling At Myself

I'm tired today. 

I spent the afternoon wandering through the dreamy genius of the Longmont flea market. 

Quite the mise en scene.  Worn barbies, ancient tools, expired boxes of decongestants and enema kits.  Glass figurines, feathered hats, tired stuffed animals, confusing magnets, dented license plates, stiff mink stoles, chipped wooden desks, comic books, faceless dolls, crocheted blankets, horseshoes, and thousands upon thousands of happily beaten books.

***

Last night I ate too much and drank too much and passed out wearing Kitty's plush pink cotton candy coat.  When I woke in the middle of the night, feeling terrible about myself, I urinated then started in with enthusiastic diatribes of self deprecation. 

It's hard to sleep when I'm yelling at myself.  So, after close to an hour of auto-detest, I turned the abuse into something else.  I made a puppet of my right hand and whispered aloud (so not to wake anyone) in ventriloquist fashion all the terrible things I was thinking at myself. 

"You are substandard, Katrina, pathetic.  You can't stop yourself.  Keep this up and nobody will love you.  Do you want to be alone?  Do you want to be fat, so that everyone knows how weak you are?  Do you enjoy feeling like shit?  What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Look," I said to the ugly character, "It was an intense day.  This is an intense time in my life.  I'm not sure where I will be living in the next few months, my body has been out of whack, and I take a great deal of comfort from food and drink.  Did you see that cheese?  Oh my god it was so good, oozing out of its skin like that, turning itself on.  And the wine was lovely too and the gin with St. Germain, and the dark, hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.  I love filling up.  It helps me escape."

"Exactly.  You're a coward."

"You know what Petunia?" (I figured she ought to have a name) "I've had enough of your psychological assaults.  You can stay awake all night if you like, but I'm not going to deprive myself of any more sleep listening to your crap.  Have a miserable evening if you like, but I refuse to be miserable with you."

When I woke the next day I felt better.  I mean, physically I was exhausted, but I was far more gentle with myself than I would normally be following an evening of such excess.

***

Today, as I walked through the flea market, I continued to cast my worries, frustrations and self hatred into the bodies of old rocking horses and Peruvian finger puppets.  Liberated from the cave of my mind, these characters were free to roam the dusty avenues of the store, converse with one another and make friends with the shabby toys and figurines animated by the imagined anxieties of other patrons.

I watched as stories were born of the inner torment that often stifles creative work.  I listened to my pain without having to identify with it, without needing to change it.  I let it wander, watching it with wonder and curiosity.  I became grateful for the tragic theater, and came home inspired, ready to glue antique buttons on lonely socks.