About the Day(s) I Cried Myself to Sleep
There was no big event. No heartbreak. No tragedy. Just… life being a relentless little shit.
It started like any other Tuesday-slash-Thursday-slash-eternal-Monday. I woke up tired despite having slept 8 hours and a full nap. My back hurt for no reason other than I dared to exist as a person in her 30s. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a dead-eyed nod, like two coworkers passing each other in a corporate bathroom stall.
I showered. Brushed my teeth. Fed the pets. It all felt so routine. I opened Instagram. First mistake. Saw friends sipping matcha in a Balinese treehouse with abs, others posting weekend engagement photos in wine country at the tender age of 26, “Huh. I’m 35 and I had crackers for breakfast. Again.”
I tried to power through the day. Work stuff. Life stuff. You know, the normal, soul-draining minutiae like:
answering emails that feel like personal attacks
pretending to understand Excel formulas
wondering if I should go outside or just accept that I'm now a creature of the shadows
I felt off. All day. Like a balloon slowly deflating in a corner. No big pop. Just a little fffffffhhhht of air leaking out of my soul.
And then, of course, bedtime. The sacred moment where everything you've ignored all day kicks your door down like, “HEY, BESTIE, WANNA TALK ABOUT YOUR DEEP FEELINGS NOW?” Ugh. What a bitch.
So I’m brushing my teeth (crying), putting on pajamas (still crying), trying to take a deep breath (ugly crying), and then—the breakdown hits.
Big, loud sobs. Dramatic ones. Like I just found out my soulmate married someone else and also my house was repossessed by the government and also my favorite snack was discontinued (no, this would be tragic).
I cried like I was being filmed in a gritty A24 movie.
I cried like a Victorian widow who just found out her lover died in a foggy duel.
I cried like every therapist I’ve ever ghosted was standing outside my window, holding a boombox.
And did my pets come comfort me?
No. Assholes.
My cat (my sweet 8-year-old baby boy, the one I carried in my arms as a kitten like Rafiki holding Simba) gave me a side-eye so brutal I almost stopped crying out of shame. He looked at me like, “Bitch, you’re being loud.” Then he left the room. The nerve.
The other one? The one whose life I SAVED from the streets? Whose dumb little butt I relentlessly pet every time she asks for it? Sleeping peacefully on the chair I bought for myself like she pays rent here.
My dog, usually the emotionally needy one, straight up ignored me. Zero loyalty. Not one paw touched me. Not even a pity lick. Just full abandonment. So now I’m crying and rejected. Love that for me.
Eventually, I gave up. Let the tears do their thing. Curled up in bed like a wet sock. Fell asleep with the TV and the lights on.
And in the morning? I woke up looking like a pufferfish who just got bad news. But I woke up.
Tired? Yes.
Emotionally stable? Not entirely.
But I made some tea. Pet my emotionally unavailable animals. Opened my laptop. Kept going.
Here’s the point, though. Sometimes you don’t need a reason. Sometimes the world just gets heavy. And your brain is tired. And you feel like a failure even though you’re trying really fucking hard.
So you cry. You fall apart. You do it in bed with your pets judging you and your dignity slowly exiting stage left.
And that’s okay.
Because crying isn’t weakness — it’s maintenance.
It’s like cleaning out the mental fridge before it starts to smell.
It’s like resetting your soul’s Wi-Fi.
It’s like screaming into a pillow, except quieter and wetter.
So cry if you need to. Let it all out. Then wash your face. Drink water. Eat a vegetable if you’re feeling wild. And start again.
Because one day, out of nowhere, everything will feel okay again. Not perfect. But okay. And that’s more than enough.
