An Insomniac Describes Validity

A short story made in an hour in the middle of the night.

Time: 0111

There is a hole in the heart and a soul in the head where the mind should be. Thinking comes easy for the cared for and the neglected must feel it all to survive. There is practical obedience in a person who lays down their comfort for a lick of pain in the form of loneliness. I have discovered a wrath of solitude that leaves more questions than answers.

I could talk circles around my validation for validation.

Being alone is an oddly satisfying way to go through life, yet I cannot help but think I am wasting time. How can I possibly go through life in solidarity and say it is a life lived? But there is also my presence; one of which I display on Instagram and Substack. A presence that is not real.

There is a part of me who wishes to not care about the eyes who may come across how I betray myself in a fake world of photos, captions, and wit. But I know little else of how to seek attention, or more accurately the validation of my existence.

My son is sleeping in his room, under the spider man blanket he adores. It is one in the morning, and I cannot seem to lay my head back to my pillow. I awoke to the sound of slight restlessness, placing a kiss on a damp forehead to ease my mind. I often think about the little things he loves while he is little and how I hope to store them in boxes when he is too old to ask his mother to kiss his injuries and snuggle when he is scared. A memento of the potentially lost. Validation of my midnight kisses.

I am greatly living for validations that could not be more different. As a mother, every person that knows me face to face knows I am a good mother, or least say it to my face. Yet, I am rarely complimented on who I am without my son, or maybe I notice them less.

On my way from my son’s room, back to my desk, and in a sway of insomnia, I spot a giant spider on the dim kitchen floor. I typically would run for a jar and release the tiny creature in the flower garden. But half asleep I smooshed it under my barefoot. The squash and feel of slime invalidated my initial reaction to crush the bug barefoot as I start to gag. Under the flick of my fluorescent kitchen light, I see grasshopper legs stuck to the ball of my foot. I did not just step on this gooey bug, I danced on him, not even knowing what he was.

After sitting back at my desk all I can think is that I am seeing myself as the spider and the grasshopper. One who existed in my mind, one in the flesh who was mistaken. It all makes so much sense, yet none at all. I am tired. So very tired.

Time 0222