Lightheaded

The late afternoons are hard.

The sleeplessness sits behind my eyelids, making them heavy and gritty, and I feel both exhausted and restless - as if my body knows I'll fall asleep if I don't move.

I feel locked into a cycle of my recurring nightmare and the horrible insomnia caused by waking violently from it.

One small blessing is that I haven't woken up screaming again since Monday evening. Somewhere in my mind, knowing that I'm going to talk to a professional about my problems seems to have averted a crisis situation... for now.

Not that I'm looking forward to it. I mean, a psychiatrist? Me? But Dr. Clarke had thought it would be the best way to sort out whatever's bothering me since the incident. I suppose, in a way, I should be grateful he hasn't sent me away with a fistful of tablets.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was, as he put it, "just his best guess" (there's such a thing as doctors being too honest, I think). Hence the shrink.

But if talking about my nightmares can do anything to help, then I think I can get over my feelings about seeing a psychiatrist. "Seeing a psychiatrist"! Sounds like a line from a film.

And apart from Jen, who needs to know? As far as the good Steve is concerned, I'm just off for a routine check up at the Infirmary tomorrow; people tend to cut you a bit of slack, I'm finding, when you're recovering from being in a coma...

Before me, just for a moment, the final rays of the afternoon sun flicker and I'm looking at the face of a watch, as the hubbub of voices around me fades to a murmur...and then someone says something loudly that jerks me awake in an instant.

I shudder involuntarily. All of a sudden, tomorrow can't come quickly enough.



Story begins here.