I don't see it, I feel it. I can feel my body adjusting to operation during daylight hours. All of the little subsystems in my mind are slowly clicking on again, being manned. I wait with my eyes closed for Damage Control to come online and decide if my body is ready for deployment. While I wait, I try to remember where I am, since the feelings underneath my back and legs are completely foreign. But on playback the past few hours are clippy and nonsensical. Logistics sets to work cleaning up the footage. It doesn't take long for Damage Control to report back that the risk of attempting to sit up is acceptable. They've also deemed opening my eyes an acceptable risk based on what sketchy data they have, so I say a little prayer and blink.

There's the obvious and expected pain at first, but something's wrong. I can't readily grasp what it is I'm seeing. The guys in Imaging just got their coffee, so they're a little slow to get to work. Eventually, what I'm seeing sharpens up to the clarity I'm used to, but still I can't understand what it is I'm seeing. Logistics reminds me that I have been cleared to sit up, so I attempt that instead. As I'm slowly sitting up I realize what I was seeing was the colorful knit blanket that was draped over my face. A blanket I've never seen before. And suddenly I realize, I'm in a living room I've never seen before.

Where the hell am I?

Suddenly, Sensory finally comes 100% online and I taste the remnants of alcohol in my mouth. The fermentation process that had begun while I was passed out left my palette begging for something to rinse it. There was something else that I tasted besides the alcohol -- stomach acid, mildly. Everything from the night before came rushing back at me. The conversation, the bar, the drinking games. Ranting about men like a woman possessed. Kneeling in a dark narrow room, utterly helpless. And clutching porcelain because it was the only thing that kept me from falling over. My knees were getting sore from being in that one position for however long I was in there. I vaguely remember someone coming in to reassure me that he had just cleaned the toilet that day, so I was lucky.

I arose from my funeral pyre and cast away the rags of sleep fully. Logistics had already begun to review the footage from last night to locate my coat, since with the new knowledge of just how badly I behaved the night before I wanted to make as quiet an exit as possible. I realize that there is a couple sleeping on the couch close by, and the reason that I decided to go on such a bender comes flooding back as well. A member of Public Relations quietly but spitefully suggests that I do something mean, just because they are lying there so peaceful and serene. But Logistics has pinpointed my coat, so I set myself to making my quiet escape.

Optics screams at me once I get outside. It's 9 a.m. and the ground is covered in snow, so it takes a full 10 seconds or so for Optics to get on the ball. Once I adjust, I realize that there are now two rather large cars parked behind mine. With Public Relations warning me against waking anyone up I devise a plan to get alongside the cars and ride the snow-covered grass out. Logistics reminds me slowly but firmly that my car is rear wheel drive and most likely will get bogged down. I remind Logistics, still half drunk, that I'm not a child, I'm running this show, and we're gonna do it my way. Logistics throws it's hands up and backs off. So I start the car and with what room I have I make an attempt to turn around, inevitably getting stuck. I run back inside to tell my friend that I've got an issue, but he's a bit too out of it to try and help, so I go back out to the car and rock it for all I'm worth to get her out. A couple next door to the house I was at came outside at this point, presumably to go to church. They see my plight and get behind to push. After about a minute of that Logistics and the guy behind my car both decide that it's not gonna work. At this point, the woman decides that we can use their truck to pull my across the grass onto their clear driveway and out we go, me in tow. Once we're both on the street and unhooked, I hand the guy a ten spot and tell him to take the Missus out to Sunday breakfast. Public Relations silently patted itself on the back for that one. This couple didn't have to do what they did, they were just good Christians who were on their way to worship and saw a chance to do what Jesus would have done. Good kids.

I realized, thinking about how good those two seemed, that I felt reborn. After such a night of hate and self destruction, I awake feeling like a new person. But there's still internal conflict. With so much that I'm unsure of in my life I feel like I'm being crushed. And I make attempts to get out from under the crushing weight, but every movement just crushes me more.

It feels like my spirit is breaking.

And if you've never been there, let me tell you, it's a darker, more complete death of self than a breaking heart could ever be. Your faith is lost in everything, your self doubt all-encompassing. If ever there was a way to mentally be in the shitter, a broken spirit is it. I don't want to be that way, and I'm trying damn hard to be better. But Jesus Christ on a stick, when I get to a point where I set out to put myself in the ground through alcohol, it makes me think that the opposite of progress is being made. I'M TIRED, PEOPLE. Tired of? Men, war, bills, unemployment, family, booze, school, friends, everything.

And no amount of resting is gonna help my weary soul now.

(Courtesy of RoninTetsuro)