Rumination

I lay in bed petrified to sleep, ruminating over the torturous class that will greet me with the sun. Every Sunday night without fail, the same dread builds like a mason a wall. I need out of this rut I'm contractually obliged to keep. One week more, yet then the next, 28 weeks in, Im still awake. Its 3:44 my bedside clock says, ive lost so many hours, together, days. I need to retreat into a bubble of sleep, to be well rested for a morning of mental torture. Schema therapy is no joke, yet revisiting your past is nearly as traumatising as the trauma itself; etched in my brain, I carry it around every corner of this universe. My past and the pain in which it is accompanied by is an open wound, this class opens it further, leaving room for infection. Its only three hours, some may call that easy, but not me; I find it excruciatingly painful. With each week the psychologists go deeper into the archives then leave me alone, without support, ruminating over the torturous class that will greet me on Monday, week 29.

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