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Description
I lay here, the room around me lit solely by the dim green light from the smoke alarm.   Normally to make this an interesting and gripping story, I would uncover something important, or exciting.  Skip to the cool parts, and then go BACK and explain things.
Well the truth is… I don't seem to have anything interesting to write about.
The cat's sitting behind me, purring her heart out with a purr that could probably vibrate the fur off of her skin, or the fabric off of the couch.  I hear sounds of a load of reds in the dryer, and an alien attack playing on the flat screen in the living room below.  A baby is crying somewhere about not being able to watch.
It's midnight.  It all comes down to one simple fact.  I have school tomorrow, and my mind refuses to let me sleep.  Maybe it's the psychological thriller earlier today, or the Mountain Dew I had at lunch.  But normally, when I get like I am now, all signs point to insomnia.  Well he's the main cause, anyway.  He starts the party, then Mr. Depression invites himself, and wobbling closely behind is Mrs. Anxiety.  They usually bring up that awful conversational topic of my PTSD, then my brain usually sighs and lets them go through their stories once again.  Like an old man telling tales that have been told hundreds of times about clearing the west and shooting at Indians and whatnot. That conversation usually leads to self-hatred, then morphs in to a reeling debate in which case, one side is arguing in favor of my brain telling me You're completely worthless, and the other side is arguing, Piss off, she's fine.
To be honest, if it came between sitting through Mr. and Mrs. Mental Disorders' famously depressing mental lectures, and having leukemia… I'd pick cancer.  At least people stop judging you when they know you're going to die soon, and not by your own hand.
Sighing, I sit up.  The cat stops purring, and the noises of an assault against military forces from downstairs has ceased.  The dryer's still going on, tumbling and rattling.  Mr. Depression starts the fire;
If you can't sleep, what good are you?  NORMAL teenagers sleep, so why can't you?  Freak.
Mrs. Anxiety pipes in.
You're going to end up spending the entire night awake with me and then you're going to be lagging at school tomorrow and then you're going to get a bad grade on the test and then you're going to fail the school year and then you're not going to be able to graduate and then you won't get in to college and then you'll be homeless and then people will disown you because no one likes hobos and then you'll die alone.
Thank you for that amazing dose of insight.
These are the cycles I go through.  All the time.  Everywhere.
An alarm sounds below, probably warning at an incoming ET threat or something of the sort.  My eyes finally get weary.  But not before Depression's had his nightly go.
Someday.  Some hour I'm finally cured of this madness… Some time in the future, I won't have to deal with this.  I'll be able to look on the bright side.  But not here.
Not now.

Description
I lay here, the room around me lit solely by the dim green light from the smoke alarm.   Normally to make this an interesting and gripping story, I would uncover something important, or exciting.  Skip to the cool parts, and then go BACK and explain things.
Well the truth is… I don't seem to have anything interesting to write about.
The cat's sitting behind me, purring her heart out with a purr that could probably vibrate the fur off of her skin, or the fabric off of the couch.  I hear sounds of a load of reds in the dryer, and an alien attack playing on the flat screen in the living room below.  A baby is crying somewhere about not being able to watch.
It's midnight.  It all comes down to one simple fact.  I have school tomorrow, and my mind refuses to let me sleep.  Maybe it's the psychological thriller earlier today, or the Mountain Dew I had at lunch.  But normally, when I get like I am now, all signs point to insomnia.  Well he's the main cause, anyway.  He starts the party, then Mr. Depression invites himself, and wobbling closely behind is Mrs. Anxiety.  They usually bring up that awful conversational topic of my PTSD, then my brain usually sighs and lets them go through their stories once again.  Like an old man telling tales that have been told hundreds of times about clearing the west and shooting at Indians and whatnot. That conversation usually leads to self-hatred, then morphs in to a reeling debate in which case, one side is arguing in favor of my brain telling me You're completely worthless, and the other side is arguing, Piss off, she's fine.
To be honest, if it came between sitting through Mr. and Mrs. Mental Disorders' famously depressing mental lectures, and having leukemia… I'd pick cancer.  At least people stop judging you when they know you're going to die soon, and not by your own hand.
Sighing, I sit up.  The cat stops purring, and the noises of an assault against military forces from downstairs has ceased.  The dryer's still going on, tumbling and rattling.  Mr. Depression starts the fire;
If you can't sleep, what good are you?  NORMAL teenagers sleep, so why can't you?  Freak.
Mrs. Anxiety pipes in.
You're going to end up spending the entire night awake with me and then you're going to be lagging at school tomorrow and then you're going to get a bad grade on the test and then you're going to fail the school year and then you're not going to be able to graduate and then you won't get in to college and then you'll be homeless and then people will disown you because no one likes hobos and then you'll die alone.
Thank you for that amazing dose of insight.
These are the cycles I go through.  All the time.  Everywhere.
An alarm sounds below, probably warning at an incoming ET threat or something of the sort.  My eyes finally get weary.  But not before Depression's had his nightly go.
Someday.  Some hour I'm finally cured of this madness… Some time in the future, I won't have to deal with this.  I'll be able to look on the bright side.  But not here.
Not now.