The Glare at 3:17 a.m
We are told that light is a gift, but they never tell you about the strong glare in the darkness that hurts the eyes.
But the noise steadily increased. I breathed hard and gasped for breath, shouting at intervals, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides... Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! ... I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
‘Villains!’ I shrieked, ‘dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart! — Edgar Allan Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart (1843)
It's the same monster for Poe in 1843 and for me today at 3:17 a.m. in this dark room.
little pushes, slivers of nudges in the dark
something deep within me is trying to save us both
people’s shadows have personalities of their own
and mine just doesn’t want to be forgotten anymore
clawing toward the light it needed to exist for us
when I stayed in the void a moment too long
but I never did stop trying, never did I refuse to fight to live
with hopes and with dreams that I want to reach
but how to record dreams in the middle of the night
when I’m shocked awake by traumas that haunt me?
it won’t be easy, but impossible, is just a lie ghost sell
healing is a rocky coast, jagged and wide
stretching out for miles with no place left to hide
it’s like you inherit a lighthouse you didn’t want to keep
every night at 3:17 a.m., I’m torn from my sleep
the glare piercing the night, sudden and harsh
dragging me through the tall grass and the marsh
forcing me to remember forgotten memories by name
these unwanted memories, these artifacts of pain
persistent as a heartbeat, and just as shameless and vain
they were buried, left to rot beneath the floor
but they remain - persistent - banging on my door
this unwelcomed companionship made itself at home
but trust me, I’m still fighting, still searching for the silver lining
I’m still here, and I still want to be; I want to be here, and I want to stay
Thank you for reading this.
As most know, my health has worsened. Managing my condition & constant hospital commutes are exhausting my daily spoons. Writing is my lifeline—the one thing I can still do while managing treatments or being bedbound by a flare-up.
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Hello, I am the person behind the writings you’ll find here.
For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.
As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat—a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.
Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.
You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).
I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.
Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.
Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.
It means a lot to witness your fight and your hope through the darkness. I’m holding space for you and sending quiet support as you keep reaching for that silver lining.
One of the things I love about writing is the way in which it confers its power to the scribe. Your words are powerful, and I especially love what you did in channeling Poe's excerpt.