At night, I used to lie awake. Fearful.
People say there are worse things to deal with, but money is a deal breaker. Its claws firmly immersed in your belly, daring you, taunting you, setting a burning fire deep inside.
At night, those claws were in me deep. Sleep was for those with money. Slumber was for those who didn’t have to worry how they were going to pay their mortgage the next month.
My head was on the pillow, but it wouldn’t stay still.
What if we tried…? No, that won’t work. How about instead of this, we try…? No, not going to work either. Endless game of cat and mouse running through my head. Except I’m uncomfortable, because I’m the mouse, you see. And the cat, oh that cat, Cheshire in nature, dangling me from its paw.
At night, I felt the pressure, I felt the walls closing in.
Money, so ingrained, so tightly bound to one’s existence. Is this what’s it’s going to be like? This nauseous cycle of repetition? Call the bank, try again. Call the bank, try again.
At night, I struggled to keep it together. By day I was controlled, cool, calm, and collected. But under the moonlight the strains were there, etched in my face, like some horrible rendering of Picasso.
I thought I would break, I thought this house is going to break me right down the middle, spilling me and my shame at being forced to sell it, for all the world to see.
But like a butterfly, I shed my cocoon.
The house with four walls and a roof was…just that. In the end, the sleepless nights gave way to a new beginning. The “Sold” sign forged a new path, one without thrashed blankets left in its wake.
I stood at the precipice, but I didn’t jump.
At night, my cheek lays against the cool pillow.
And I sleep.