365 Cups of Coffee

Five: Hazelnut Caramel Macchiato

    We get home at nearly 11:30, after my mom and I force my dad to stop for coffee at Starbucks on the way home.  I get a hazelnut caramel macchiato, one of my favorites when I’m not feeling well.  And I mean I am, but I want to make that feeling last, and I know the warmth and sugar will keep that feeling up.  I fall asleep in the car at around 11:15, exhausted from being up for so long, even though the ride isn’t very long.  I haven’t done much for months on end, so even walking around Portsmouth all day exhausts me, not to mention getting up before noon.  The caffeine in the macchiato doesn’t help either; now that I’m addicted to coffee, it never really does.

    I wake up when I hear our garage door open.  The sound is new to me, starling.  We never had a garage in Savannah, never needed it.  It didn’t snow in Savannah like I know it does here.  My iPod is blasting music in my ears, and I don’t bother lowering it as I walk into my house.  Now that it’s been so long since I’ve had a normal relationship with my parents, I don’t know how to act around them anymore.  I wave goodnight, go upstairs, get ready, and then shut myself in my room and try to sleep.  It isn’t long before I drift off, smiling to myself, the book Daniel gave me on my nightstand.

    I wake up in a cold sweat.  My room feels so bright, blinding, almost, like I’m on drugs, or sick, or dying, even.  Everything feels like there’s too much light now.  Like there’s not a single dangerous place left on the Earth, like I can’t see anything worse than what I have seen . . . And yet, everything has me paranoid.  Every little thing sets me off.  A drop of blood, a crowd of people, the memory of school . . . A nightmare . . .

    But then again, can you ever see the night as truly dark again, once you’ve seen the darkest of the dark?

    Will any nightmare ever match the brutality of my memory I’m trying hard to escape every moment of my life?  Trying to calm myself down, I try to remind myself that watching someone, in graphic detail, break a bone in a dream is nothing compared to what I’ve seen.  I try to remind myself that it’s all over now.  That I’m here, in New Hampshire, far away from Georgia.  Safe.  But sometimes I don’t think it’s far enough.  Sometimes I wish I’d chosen Washington or California or something on the west coast, somewhere the memories couldn’t chase me as easily.  Sometimes, I feel more fragile than ever. 

    Sometimes, when I see a little kid crying, I just want to go hug them, assure them that everything is okay.  When I see some stupid middle school kid trying to do some trick on his skateboard and falling over and scraping up his knee, I want to run over and help him, wash out the cut, make it feel better instantly.  When I see dead-eyed people in grocery store lines, I want to talk to them, make them forget why they ever felt like they were trapped inside some stupid monotony.  Make them laugh again.  Sometimes I just want to get rid of all suffering, everywhere, forever, so people won’t hurt anymore.

    But I know that’s stupid.  I know that without suffering, nothing would have worth.  Suffering helps.  It’s a drive, constantly pushing people forwards so they can avoid it.  It’s what brought me to meet Daniel.  What brought me here.  And I know it, but I just can’t . . . I just want to be whole again.

    After a sleepless night, I decide to head off to Higher Grounds in the morning for some coffee to help wake me up.  I take the book Daniel gave me, hoping if I read it, I will feel better.  Ryan is at the front counter when I walk in, and he grins upon my arrival.

    “Back so soon, are we?” he asks.  I nod in response, and order the same thing I did last time.  Usually I try a number of things before settling on a favorite, but today, I just feel like drinking the coffee that almost marked the start of my new life here.  I want to settle into a routine and never break it by something terrible and unexpected.  But I guess, most of all, I just want to be able to sleep through one whole night without waking up.