Caitlin is Gone

This morning, I was jolted awake by the most frightening dream. It was not scary in the typical fearful ways that dreams can be scary. There were no monsters or fires or people chasing me. It wasn’t even about Don this time. Except it was. He was not in the dream, but it centered around his death. It was about change, and how much I fear it. It was about being terrified of things and people disappearing – people I love, people I count on. Maybe it was also about me feeling guilty anytime I ask for help from others. I don’t know. Having a tough time figuring this one out totally. It was off the charts weird and mean. It was also incredibly hilarious and bizarre, and although I am able to analyze some of it pretty well, I’d love it if my readers would attempt the rest for me in the comments. Most of my dreams seem to quickly leave my mind an hour or so after I have them, so because I just woke up from this one, Im going to write it out here exactly as I remember it happening. It felt incredibly real, as most of my Don-related dreams do these days. When I woke up from it, I was actually gasping for air a little bit. I was very confused. Here is the dream in all it’s terrible, hysterical reality:

It is Monday, which is my grief counselor day, and the dream begins with me getting off the bus in Manhattan and then walking the couple of blocks to my appointment. It’s a sunny day, extremely windy, hot as hell, and I’m rushing. There was traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, so the bus was running late. I turn the corner and pass the Starbucks that is there, (in the sea of other Starbucks within a 4 block radius), except it’s not a Starbucks anymore. It’s a McDonald’s. What on earth??? Why the hell … I have no time to react to this baffling turn of events, and I run the rest of the way to my counselor’s high-rise. The usual leathery-faced older man who is worn out by life and announces and buzzes me in – is now replaced by an older leathery-faced woman. She grunts at me angrily as she lets me through the front entrance. During my elevator ride up, I anticipate all the things I want to talk about with Caitlin today. It’s been another exhausting week and I need this safe place to explode and vent without judgement or fear. I get off the elevator and walk down the long hallway, expecting my counselor to be standing in her doorway, with the door held open for me, in that welcoming way that she always does. That doesn’t happen. I reach the door and nobody is there. That’s strange. I guess I will knock. Still nothing. I get out my cell phone to call her and let her know I have arrived, when the door opens suddenly.

A flamboyantly gay man who is minimum 85 years old  and looks like an aging Tim Gunn looks at me, then says insincerely: “Can I help you?” He is wearing a wool beige sweater with a hot pink scarf. It is August and 95 degrees. “Well, are you going to come in, or are you going to stand there like a fool?” I walk in. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but my need to find out keeps me moving forward. Maybe my counselor hired this odd, rude man as her receptionist. “Wait here. The therapist will be with you in a few minutes. You may sit in this chair or that chair, but never that big one. There is bottled water on the table. The cost is $5 per beverage. Your timed session begins now. Toodles!” He flings his scarf around his rooster neck, sets a loud kitchen timer for one hour, and then exits the room, slowly disappearing. I have no idea where he goes.

I feel sick. Something is off, but I stay anyway. The comfy, large marshmellow-y chair that I always sit in is now off-limits to me, apparently. As is the water, which I now have to pay for? What’s up with that shit? And therapist? No. Caitlin is not a therapist. She is a grief-counselor. Why is he calling her a therapist? I begrudgingly choose the hard, tiny, uncomfortable chair, and squeeze my fat ass into it somehow. I look like an overstuffed sausage, it is boiling hot in the normally comfortable, friendly room, and I suddenly want to run away. The loud kitchen timer makes me nervous. It is larger than a normal one and looms over me, watching me like a creepy owl. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …….

A few minutes go by and I’m now sweating. The clicking of heels gets closer and someone enters the room. The someone is not Caitlin. She is a brunette with medium-long, straight hair and glasses. She has a cold, dark face. She wears a business suit and black pumps. She looks to be about my age. She sits directly across from me and glares at me with suspicious eyes. She is not Caitlin and I hate her. She opens a drawer and pushes a button. A hidden cabinet opens, and a flash of light appears. A spotlight. There is a spotlight on me. I can barely see, it is so bright. She picks up a clipboard and a pen and begins to take notes. She is writing furiously. What the fuck is she writing? We haven’t even said anything yet! She speaks and doesn’t look at me.

“So last time you were here, you mentioned your mother, Fran?” She taps her pen on her clipboard. The kitchen timer gets louder. Her breathing gets louder. She crosses her legs and squints at me. Her squint is an accusation against me. She despises me. She is everything I loathe about therapy.

“Fran is my grandmother, not my mother. And I never mentioned her. I’m sorry, but who are you??? And where the hell is Caitlin?”

“I am Kathleen. Caitlin is gone. You need to start accepting that.”

Start accepting it? It JUST happened! Where is she?”

“That is irrelevant.” She turns the spotlight so that it is directly in my eye.

“Actually, it’s pretty much the only thing that IS relevant right now. Can you please get that light out of my eyes?” The normally warm environment is now frozen, and I am being interrogated.

“She had more important people to tend to. More important things to do. She no longer felt the need to spend her time discussing your loss, so she asked me to replace her. You will be seeing me now. It’s really important that you not dwell on the past. She is not here. Accept it. Move on.” She takes out a pack of cigarettes out of nowhere and lights one up. Cigarettes? Seriously? Could this bitch be any more of a cliche?

“But this makes no sense. Why would Caitlin give up her job? She loves her job. And why wouldn’t she tell me? She would never do this to me. She wouldn’t just disappear like this.” My face feels hot and I can feel the tears welling up. It is four-thousand degrees in that room, but Kathleen’s veiny hand is ice-cold on her cigarette.

“People disappear. Don disappeared. He left you. Get a grip, Kelley. You are wasting session time talking about this. The clock is ticking. I did not want to go down this road with you, but if you insist, I will tell you. Caitlin did not give up her work. She gave up you. She doesn’t hate her work. She hates you. She took her practice and moved it to Wyoming.”

Wyoming??? She hates Wyoming!” This cannot be happening.

“No. As I said, she hates you. Her exact words to me were: ‘I would rather live in Wyoming than be forced to sit and listen to that woman’s whining for one more hour. I find her story tiresome and annoying, and life is too short for that kind of nonsense. Please do not give her my contact information, and good luck to you in trying to find some relevance in her insipid grieving.”

“Insipid? No. Caitlin would never say that. She doesn’t even talk like that. She is amazing. You’re a bitch.” Now I’m crying and I grab the kleenex box behind me. There is a lock on it, with a sign that reads: “Kleenex: $2 per sheet.” I throw it across the room and cry into my hands.

The bitch is unphased. She picks up the kitchen timer and moves the time forward by ten minutes. There are now 35 minutes remaining in this mindfuck horror show. She removes her glasses, takes a drag off her cigarette, and says calmly: “I do not allow profanity in my office, and crying is for infants. Learn how to grieve properly. Your husband would be ashamed by this embarassing display. You are acting like a child. I will tell you this one more time – with feeling. Your husband is gone. Caitlin is gone. And if you keep acting in this manner, everyone in your life will be gone. Your counselor asked me to take over, and because that is Kathleen’s job, that is what Kathleen will do.” The fact that she just referred to herself in the third-person, twice, is the catalyst that makes me get up and get the fuck out of there.

I stand up out of the horrible chair. “Well, no offense, but you suck at your job. You are the worst person I’ve ever met and there is no way in hell you have a license to practice anything. I can get through this much better without you, than with you. I’m leaving.” I walk toward the door. I can’t get out of this place fast enough. I still don’t know where the hell Caitlin is, but I don’t believe for one second that she is in Wyoming, that she hates me, or that she would abandon me and send this mess of a human-being in her place. The door won’t open. “Try again”, the bitch says. “There’s someone on the other side.” I open the door, and my brother walks in. He is stumbling, is wearing his Red Sox hat and sweatshirt, and has blood-shot eyes. He is drunk.

“David? What the hell are you doing here?” I have never been more confused in my entire life. He goes over to Kathleen and takes one of her cigarettes and lights it up. He smokes in my face rudely as he talks: “I live here now. In NYC. I fuckin’ hate this place but I had to move here because you’re so needy with all your grieving bullshit and all the constant help you need from everyone. I had to sell my house and truck. Jen left me and moved to Wyoming, and I had to give my kids away cuz I couldn’t afford them anymore. I gave them to The Salvation Army. I started smoking again and I drink again too. I go to the bars just to take away the stress of having to hear abour your stupid grief all the time. I’m tired of hearing about Don. Even Don is sick of hearing about Don. You should just shut up already and leave it alone. My life sucks now, and to top it all off, I’m stuck here with a bunch of stupid Yankee fans. Thanks a lot.” He puts his cigarette out on the floor, stomps on it, and then walks into the other room and disappears. Kathleen laughs. “I’m charging you for that cigarette”, she says. “Get the door.”

The doorbell rings. I go over and open it. This time, my parents are there, and they have aged about 20 years. They look terrible. Dad has a cane and mom walks with her spine in the shape of the letter L. “Holy Shit! What happened to you guys?” I am stunned at their appearance. “What the hell is going on???” I scream out loud at the universe. My dad sits down in the nearest chair, exhausted. Mom leans against the wall with her brittle hand. If I didn’t know it was them, I would never know it was them. Dad lets out a long sigh, and then finally speaks: “We have done so much for you. Too much. We can’t do it anymore. I got fired from my job because I had to keep coming up there to help you move out of your apartment. You have made my diabetes worse and your mother now has Alzheimer’s because of your inability to move on from this. She doesn’t even know where we are right now. She thinks I’m her father, and that we are getting ice-cream. We are quitting. We quit you. You need to sign these papers. They say that we are no longer your parents and that we no longer have to feel obligated to help you. We are resigning and moving to Wyoming.” Kathleen cackles again. Mom looks lost and plays with the spotlight. What the fuck is happening??? And what is with Wyoming???

“Do what my father says, honey. We love you, but it’s just too much. Look at what you’ve done to us. All because you refuse to live in reality. I’m going with my dad now to Kimball’s for my Black Rasberry ice-cream cone. Sign the papers, Katie. Fend for yourself. You’re all alone now. Be strong, Karen. These are the cards you were dealt. You can’t stop counting your chickens until they hatch. Life is not a rollercoaster. It’s a journey and a destination. There were two footprints in the sand. That was when Moses carried you. And I took the one less traveled by. Deal with it, Karla.”

Dad sighs again. “Come on Chris,” he says. He grabs her gently by the arm and leads her away from me. “I’m coming, Father!” she yells.

They both walk out of the room and into that weird other space that everyone keeps disappearing into …..

There is a loud, horrific noise. It sounds like an ambulance siren. The ambulance my husband drove. It gets louder and louder as I block my ears. Kathleen chuckles. “That’s the kitchen timer. I had them make it into the sound of an ambulance – just to mess with you a bit and remind you of his death some more. Funny, huh? Time’s up. Please get out of my office now. I have to relieve my bowels. Jerome will see you out.”

The flamboyantly gay older-than-dirt man that resembles Tim Gunn and his pink scarf return from thin air, and he hands me a piece of paper. “Here is your bill for this week. You’ll see it’s been broken down into sections so that your feeble brain can comprehend it. $150 for the session, $5 for the cigarette your brother smoked, $2 for the kleenex, and Kathleen added an annoyance fee of $45, because she finds you annoying in a general sort of way. So your total is $202. Kapish?” He opens the door and physically starts moving me into the hallway.

“But, I’m never coming back here again, and I can’t pay this stuff!”

“We’ll make sure that you do. I have pilates and yoga to get to, followed by my daily colonic and cleanse ritual. So – be gone with you! Toodles!” He takes his foot and literally kicks me in my rear end to push me into the buildings hallway. The door slams behind me. I walk down the long hallway, which got longer while I was inside, and push the button for the elevator. The door opens. The elevator is packed with people. There are at least 75, maybe 100 people inside. They are all crammed in together and they are talking to each other. They are everyone in my life. My parents are there. My brother. Relatives. Friends. They all keep talking. Everyone ignores me. The elevator starts going down, over 100 floors, 200 floors. 300. It is moving like a racecar at lightning speed and Im so dizzy. I start screaming out my friends and families names one by one over the loud elevator engine, praying someone will acknowledge me: “Hey!!! Sarah! Mom! Dad! David? John! Andrew! Hello??? Bobby? Why won’t anyone talk to me? Tabatha? Aunt Debbie? Caitlin!!! Oh my god! You’re here! You’re not in Wyoming! I knew it! I just had the weirdest dream … you didn’t want to see me anymore, and then nobody wanted to see me, not even my own family. Everyone was so mean, and they kept rushing me to grieve faster, and there was even a timer and a mean, horrible therapist … Hello??”

The elevator jolts to an abrupt stop. We are at street level, but it’s no longer a street, and it’s not New York City. It’s farm land and grass and trees. Its gray and ugly and drab. The large door opens. “This is our stop, everyone!” Caitlin says enthusiastically as she leads the huge pile of people out of the cramped elevator and into the land of Wyoming. I begin to follow. “No. Not you. You stay here. This is goodbye. I’m very disappointed in you. We are all very disappointed in you. I can’t help you anymore. I don’t want to. Nobody wants to. You’re hopeless.” Everybody nods in unison, and they enter into the farmland, toppling over one another like dominos. The door shuts again, and before I can move or think, the elevator goes all the way back up to the top floor. It shoots up like a cannon, and I feel like I will be sick. The door opens. Jerome is standing there in his wool sweater and hot pink scarf. He glares at me. “Well” he says, “Are you going to come in, or are you going to stand there like a fool?” I walk into the awfulness and sit in the terrible chair. Kathleen is already seated across from me, and she turns the kitchen timer dial with her veiny fingers. She shines the spotlight into my pupils – the start of her killing my soul.

She starts speaking after a long, hateful pause. “Last time you were here, you mentioned your mother, Fran?”

And so it begins. And ends.

The Fog

Every single night since my husband’s death has been an adventure. Not the fun kind of adventure; like when you are on vacation and anxiously await what today will bring in the way of new and exciting activities. No. This is more like the: “what kind of hell am I facing on this night, as I simply try to get a few hours of sleep so I can perhaps function and be a human being in the world tomorrow?” type of adventure. The word FUN does not exist in this reality.

The very idea of going to sleep each night brings on anxiety, panic, and unease. There are just so many factors involved. If I have done a lot of intense crying that day; which normally is the case but not always; then I might want to take some kind of Excedrin or Advil for my horrible headaches that always follow the massive crying spurts. But then sometimes my back, shoulders, and entire body are aching so badly from doing things Im not used to doing yet; like lifting EVERY SINGLE THING I OWN from my car in the parking garage across the street; to my apartment on the 3rd floor; day after day after annoying goddamn day. Heavy bags of groceries, cat litter, lugguge from spending time at my parents place, boxes of Demo Products, my gigantic shoulder bag for teaching, the microphone stand and mic I bring for my stand-up comedy students; and on and on and on. All things that Don used to just automatically carry for me, always.

In addition to that, Im doing all the cleaning, all the car stuff, and basically anything and everything else that needs to be done or comes up. Although we both did quite a bit of “stuff” around the apartment, Don was always the “take care of things” guy. He did all the carrying of heavy things, all the fixing of things that broke, and all the killing of frightening bugs or other unidentifiable creatures. That is just what he did. I would panic – he would fix. Now I just panic. And ache. So if its been THAT kind of day; then I might need some sort of Ibuprofin pill to stop aching so much so that MAYBE I can get 3 hours of sleep that night. Of course; just falling asleep and then staying asleep is another terrible adventure in itself; as in; it rarely happens. So 90% of the time, I take two Tylenol PM to help get me to slumberland. This doesnt always guarantee I will get a good nights sleep, but it will, at the very least, knock me out for an initial 3 hours or so. After that, who the hell knows what will happen; but it almost always ends or begins with the clock somewhere around 4:30am, and Sammy the cat on my pillow, pawing and clawing on my face.

So, the anxiety and ease has already begun before even attempting to sleep. Which pill do I take? What is worse: my headache, or my not being tired enough to NOT be up thinking for hours? If I have to be up at 6am to teach the next morning; this anxiety is then magnified. Or should I take something for this pain that is in my shoulders, back, and arms? My arms are absolutely killing me. They feel like they are on fire. Its got to be from all the lifting of incredibly heavy bags, but of course, the very idea that they are always hurting or feel sort of numb then throws me into further panic mode; thinking: “Holy Shit! Am I having a heart attack? Am I going to die like he did?” This thought goes through my mind on a loop, every single day. It is awful. Then the second, immediate thought is always: “If I die, Im totally alone here in this apartment. Nobody will even know Im dead. It could be days, or a week, before anyone knows Im gone. I will just be lying here. Dead.” When you lose your husband in an instant the way I did, you end up with severe anxiety that the same thing can very well happen to you, or to anyone you love. You end up obsessing and thinking about death way more than you should, because you now have the harsh knowledge that it can all be over, for any of us, in a split second. There is no sense of comfort or peace anywhere in this “journey.” (Those who have been reading and following so far know how much I HATE it when this horrific life of grief is called a “journey.” Yuck.)

After finally deciding on my drug of choice for the evening, I usually climb into my bed, and that is where the real “adventure” begins. First of all; it’s our bed. OUR bed. So every night; I have to get in it, look over to his side, and see the nothingness. The empty pillow with nobody’s head on it. There are nights I lay there for minutes or hours; just picturing his face looking back at me; or remembering a specific night of us being intimate, or kissing, or holding hands, or just talking. Or laughing. We laughed a lot in bed at night. Im not sure why. I think in a lot of ways, lying there together was like our “silly time.” It was where we would really let go and just be immature and make each other crack up at stupid things that wouldnt ever be funny to anyone else. We would sing silly songs to each other, or to the kitties; and they would climb up on us and purr. Most nights; when Don and I were sleeping facing one another; Sammy would wedge himself right in between us; and he would lay there like a little person; this third head right smack in the middle of ours. It was pretty much the cutest thing on earth.Then Autumn would sleep right at my feet; and I would always end up kicking her by accident several thousand times during the night.

 I also remember that anytime we would go to my parents house for the weekend; which was a lot; mom and dad would give us their bedroom to sleep in; and dad would sleep downstairs while mom slept in the smaller bed next to their bedroom. There were so many mornings where mom would say to us in the kitchen: “What on earth were you two laughing about last night? I heard you laughing like hell in there for the longest time!” I don’t even know what we were laughing at most times, to be honest. We just really loved to laugh. Now; there is no more laughing while lying in bed. There is just me; trying like hell to get through the night; so I can get up tomorrow and try like hell to get through the day. So that I can maybe get through the night. To get through the …. you get the idea. It’s an exhausting and endless cycle.

Lying in bed most nights; many things happen. I start thinking. Then I think some more. Memories. His voice. His touch. His hands. Things that were said. Moments. The tears usually come pretty fast while trying to sleep. One of the cats will jump up on his pillow next to me; or sleep behind my head on my pillow. A lot of times, the very presence of the kitties sends me into emotional turmoil. I think about how much he loved them; how he took such good care of them; and how much they miss him being here. How he would brush their fur and their TEETH so patiently. Yes, he brushed their teeth. It was amazing to watch. Now; in my new reality; several times; I have held onto Sammy and cried into his fur; holding onto him for dear life. The strange thing is; he lets me. He knows. He will cuddle up to me and let me cry, or place his head on my arm or up against me while I’m a sobbing mess. Most nights; Autumn will lay at the foot of the bed, by my feet. She is a lot less cuddly than Sammy; but she has gotten a lot closer to me since Don died. She will come up and purr into my pillow, or give me a quick lick on my hand, then rub her face all over me. We all lay there together; mourning and asking why it’s just us. I talk to them. I feel like a crazy person; like what everyone thinks a stereotypical “widow” is; but I talk to them. I might say: “You miss Boo Bear too, don’t you? I know, honey. I know you miss him too. I miss him so much.”

Sometimes I see Sammy on Don’s pillow, and he is looking at me with his huge, beautiful eyes, and Its like Im trying to see my husband through his eyes. It sounds nuts, because it IS nuts. But it’s what Im left with, and its what I do. I will look at Sammy and say: “Boo Bear? Are you in there, Boo?” Then Ill start laughing at how ridiculous I sound. As Don would have said: “You’re not all there, Boo. You’ve finally lost it.” We weren’t much on religion or Heaven or any of those things, but Don believed, or HOPED, that when it was his time, he would be with his kitties Isabelle and Ginger again somehow. He also believed that if there was a God; or whatever God was; that animals had the closest access. He believed that animals knew more than humans did; that they were on a different playing field somehow to that other world. Sometimes I feel him, or try to, through our pets. We lie there together with the TV on all night; for noise. I cannot stand the silence that comes with being alone. I need to keep the TV on, so I can trick myself into thinking Im not alone here forever. I hear noises. The realities of being a female alone in her apartment and vulnerable, hit hard late at night. I don’t feel safe. There are thoughts that go through my head each night; especially when the TV is off and there is darkness. It is a terrrible, unsafe feeling.

 And then, there are the nightmares. Every single night; I have some kind of dream. Most nights; I have several dreams; one right after the other. The most common one that I’ve had over and over again; is where I either re-live the morning he died, or make up some other version of it in my sleep, and then re-live that. Sometimes the nightmare is the actuality of waking up to the ringing phone, rushing to the hospital, being told he is gone, the utter shock. Seeing his body and talking to him, not knowing what I was supposed to say. Other times; the nightmare is coming from his viewpoint. Since I wasnt there when he had his heart-attack and can only go on what his co-workers tell me of that morning, my mind makes up the worst, most chilling scenarios, and plays them back to me while I sleep. I picture him lying there, collapsed, on a cold Petsmart floor. In reality; I am told he was there for a couple minutes at most before they saw him and called for help; but my nightmares have him lying there for ten, twenty minutes; begging for help. Nobody coming to help him. He reaches for his cell phone to call 911, or me, and he cant get to it before becoming unconscious. Or he is in and out of consciousness; and aware that he is going to die. He is scared. He wants to live. He wants to see me, see his kitties. I picture the ambulance ride to the hospital. Was he coherant? Did he know what was happening? Did he know the tables were turned, and he wasn’t driving the ambulance this time, but the one lying on the stretcher? WAS HE SCARED? I don’t know how Im expected to sleep with these kinds of thoughts inside my head. If I don’t get any sleep, I am exhausted the next day and can barely function. If I DO get some sleep, I have so many disturbing dreams, that I wake up exhausted from them and can barely function. Its an endless, ridiculous cycle.

The dreams that seem sweet at the time are almost worse, though. There have been many dreams that seem pleasant and beautiful. One night I had a vivid dream that I was pregnant; and it wasnt planned; and in the dream, I was telling Don the news, and he took me in his arms and jumped up and down with me, saying: “Wow! What a wonderful surprise, Boo! I’m gonna be a dad? This is so cool!” Another one Ive had often, is that I get the call from the hospital that morning, but instead of saying “We have your husband”, they say: “We have your husband. He had a minor heart attack, but he’s fine. He’s going to make it.” He gets a second chance, like so many others have. He gets to live, and I get to see him, and my world isn’t turned upside down in an instant. I have also had several dreams where Don and I are going through the process of adopting a child; something that we talked about doing many, many times. In these dreams; he gets to be the incredible father that he himself never got to have. He gets to finally be the dad that I know for a fact he would have been. The very thought of him never having that chance, and of me having to let go and mourn the idea of having a family with my husband, brings me to tears everyday. To be faced with families everywhere in the real world is bad enough – to dream about it all the time is awful. These dreams are unbearable, because you wake up happy and giddy for a few seconds; believing that what you just dreamt is the reality. Then you slowly realize it was just a dream. There is no baby. There will never be a baby. No child to give a family to. No family. Oh, and by the way, your husband didn’t make it. He died. It hits you like a ton of bricks and you cry for an hour sometimes before you can pull yourself up. And you have to pull yourself up. Employers don’t understand “I had a terrible dream” as an excuse to call out of your teaching duties.

There have been times where I’ve told people of these dreams; and they always say the same thing whenever I report dreaming about Don. “It was a visit. He was visiting you.” This drives me nuts. So far; there has only been ONE dream where I FELT like it could have been Don “visiting” me, or his spirit, or whatever it is you believe or want to call it. That was the dream that I referred to as “Eleven”; where we had sweet, very realistic dialogue, and I could FEEL his hug on me. That dream was so powerful physically and emotionally, that it affected me for days afterwards. I felt like I needed 2 days off just to recover from the intensity of that dream. As far as all the other dreams; they are just dreams, and most of them are not at all comforting. They are my mind and my heart, remembering. Wishing things were different. Wanting to bring him back.

The other night, I had a dream that was very basic. It was just me and Don, sitting at a Yankee game. We were enjoying a baseball game, the way we used to. Two people told me that dream was him “visiting me.” No it wasn’t. It was me wanting to be at a baseball game with my husband, and hang out with him again. It was me missing him. My mind never stops. The dreams never stop. The only thing worse than trying to get through the day, is trying to get through the night. It hurts to be awake, and it hurts to be asleep. Everything in between is a fog. Will there ever be any peace?