The Raveled Sleeve of Care

Macbeth said that sleep knits "the raveled sleeve of care" but I am here to tell you that it isn't true. I'm so tired. I worked here at home all day and I'm as tired as I would have been had I gone to work.I was glad to be out of the office, but as for sleep, I doubt it will ever mend the tears in my soul.

I feel perfectly normal for a moment and then, I turn a corner, glimpse a photo, see a sock, open a drawer, open a door, smell a scent, remember a smile, or a shared joy and hordes of demons come screaming at me and snatch my breath away. I can only gasp, clutch the nearest support, and cover my face in a feeble attempt to hide from the slashes and taunts of memories. A torrent of pain washes over me and everything is twisted and foreign and I'm cast into a place I do not know and where no one knows me.

There is no name for this pain. No word is adequate to describe it. And no sinner ever felt such a weight of guilt, regret, and remorse.