Take a look at my nightly routine: I shower in water that kisses my skin like fire, and I slip into more comfortable apparel. I stumble numbly to the bathroom, and with shaking hands, open the cabinet and pull out the heavy bottle of pills. I hate the night.

I swallow a handful and quietly pad to the inviting warmth of my bed, I never stay long. The red blaring numbers of my alarm clock flash the time. It’s 7:30pm. The darkness starts to swallow the light of my room, and I know that it is time. I hate the night.

It’s quiet in my home, but not silent. I can hear the hum of the AC unit, throwing the room into a chilly state. The dryer rumbles in the room next to mine, gently, it smacks against the wall as a soft, gentle knocking. I am comfortable as I lay in bed. I feel the heavy weight of exhaustion slipping in, my eyes begin to close, and my heart begins to race. I hate the night.

I feel the panic slipping in, the exhaustion erased from my mind, and in its place sits a fear around my heart. I begin to tremble as I fruitlessly attempt to bury myself beneath the heavy blankets of my bed. I hate the night.

My lungs constrict, I fling the blankets off me in a haze, and I step from the bed as the room swirls in my vision. The red numbers remind me: it’s 8:20pm. My legs buckle and I can feel the ground coming towards me, the haze clears and I am able to cushion my fall with sweaty palms. My breath comes out in short, angry burst; struggling to fill my lungs with air. I heave violently, yet nothing comes up. I hate the night.

The panic seems to subside, the palpitations in my chest seem to lessen, and the beat becomes calm, steady. I use what little strength I have to roll onto my back. The coolness of the wooden floor seeping through my clothes, chilling my feverish skin. My eyes lock on to the strikingly red numbers of the clock, my blurry eyes zero in on the time: 10:15pm. This was a short one. I hate the night.

I stand on shaky legs, like a newborn calf, the frame of my bed gripped tightly. I curl back into my bed, the warmth welcoming me back. My senses slowly come back to me, and the tears begin to flow. This is my world, seconds seem like decades; minutes turn to centuries, and the hours are millenniums that eat away my sanity. I hate the night, because the night brings the darkness and the loneliness. I play the days in my mind, over and over, a broken record that shows only my mistakes. Every night, I am reminded of how much I hate myself. When the exhaustion sets in and sleep takes over, I get to forget who I am, if only for a few hours. When the morning comes, I forget my fear, forget my hate, and I plaster on a smile. I love the mornings.