My Bed of Nails

Some nights, when I lay in bed with only the streetlamp outside my window to illuminate my thoughts, and the whirring sound of the ceiling fan to awaken my demons, I beg for reprieve.

No dreams tonight, I plead. Praying for no dreams tonight.

Some nights my prayers are not heard, and as the dreamscape devolves into a creeping trickle of ever-to-be-unanswered questions, the “should I have” and “could I have” and “would it have made a difference” demons sling arrows at my tortured soul.

I try to push away those thoughts, as unwelcome as hellhounds at heaven’s gate. I try to deflect the arrows, but the more I fight, the more plentiful they become; the more intense the thoughts become, until the arrows of the ever-to-be-unanswered questions dig into my spine and paralyze me on a merciless bed of nails that pierces the whole of my body and mind.

I feel myself rise.

I walk across a condescending floor of glass shards, stabbing me, shredding me with each step. Those glass shards are mocking me for the coward I am for no longer wanting to deal with the flood of the ever-to-be-unanswered questions. They laugh at me for lacking the fortitude to slay those demons. As they continue their torture all the way out the hall, into the living room, I throw myself on the couch and beg for relief in the cool, soft cushions.

But there’s no relief to be found. Those cool soft cushions feel like they’re swallowing me as I sink into them, and the ever-to-be-unanswered questions turn to accusations.

Yes, you should have.

Yes, you could have.

Yes, it would have made a difference.

There is no arguing. There’s no reasoning.

For the reasoning is just as condescending and accusatory as the glass shards were, and it drags me ever further into a self-manufactured pit of quicksand. The thick, heavy sludge of guilt drags me down, deeper, and deeper. The more I fight, the further I sink until I am completely enveloped and panting for breath - heart pounding, panting for breath until exhaustion finally overcomes me, and I am thankful when I lose consciousness.

When I awaken in my bed, I see the light shine through the dark but transparent curtain and liken it to the broken window in my soul. I drag myself off the mattress, stretch wide, stumble to the kitchen, and start the coffee pot.

As I pull back the curtain to welcome the day, I feel the air from the dining room fan blow the dried quicksand from my mind and cool the burning scars left on me by my self-inflicted bed of nails.

Then I smile.

I smile as the warm rays of sun touch my face and bring me hope. I smile as the beams of light banish the darkness and replace it with a welcome realization of indisputable truth.

There was nothing I could have done that would have made a difference.

I know that. I’ve always known that.

I take the first sip from my much-needed cup of coffee and tell myself that it’s going to be a good day. As I sit at the dining room table and pick the remnants of bloodied glass shards out of the tender feet of my soul, I feel the echo of an ever-to-be-unanswered question creep stealthily into the back my mind.

I close my eyes and breathe; breathe deeply and remind myself of that aforementioned realization of indisputable truth.

When I’m done with the shards and my tender soul, I pick up all I that have collected and walk to the hallway that separates the bedroom from the living room.

Then I throw those glass shards right back onto the floor - knowing full well that I may need them again when nighttime comes.