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A Night I Don’t Want to Fall Asleep
A Night I Rely on Medicine to Sleep
I still don’t know the exact clinical name of the condition that developed because of CPTSD. Think of it like this: imagine you have diabetes, and complications have appeared—but you still haven’t identified what those complications are. Mental disorders are especially influenced by a patient’s personal memories and thoughts, so it can take a long time to arrive at a clear diagnosis. It could be major depressive disorder, or bipolar II disorder (a form of bipolar disorder). So I’m still searching for the right medication.
Even so, the one thing I’ve consistently been prescribed is medication with sedative effects. At some point, sleeping became difficult. When I lie down to sleep, the stillness and the darkness make me so anxious and restless that I become more awake instead. And even if I try ASMR or white noise, the very thought that I must sleep makes me hypersensitive—the sound irritates me, and I end up more alert again. Even if I manage to fall asleep somehow, I keep waking up every 30 minutes or hour. I can’t get deep sleep.
After painfully repeating that cycle of sleeping and waking all night, I would eventually give up on sleep altogether. So I decided to accept help from medication. I started with sleeping pills, but now I’ve switched to an antidepressant that can induce sleep. And honestly, it works quite well. If I take it, I can fall asleep within about 30 minutes. And if nothing extremely stressful happens, I can sleep for about 6 to 8 hours.
A Night I Refuse Sleep
But separate from the fact that I can sleep, I keep refusing it and delaying it. I know I can’t sleep without medication. I know that even if I do sleep, it isn’t easy—and that I can’t get deep sleep. And I also know very well that if I take the medication, I can sleep more smoothly and reach deep sleep.
And yet, I keep postponing it. I could go to bed around midnight or 1 a.m., but I delay and delay until it’s past 3 or 4 a.m. before I finally take the pill and try to sleep. Some nights, I delay until I end up watching the sun rise. On those days, I can’t even take the medication—because I worry it will ruin the day that’s already beginning—so I settle for forcing myself to sleep for just one or two hours, somehow.
If I know the medication will help me sleep, why do I keep putting it off?
Resistance to Sleep
Sleep means “stopping” and “letting go.” It’s the act of pausing the day and shifting into recovery. But people who carry trauma or anxiety are not good at stopping or letting go—especially when they can’t even manage daily life well in the first place.
When it gets quiet, intrusive thoughts flood in. Sometimes they terrify me. In the dark, I feel defenseless. Even though it’s a closed, safe, comfortable moment, it feels—as if paradoxically—I’ve been opened to something infinite, and I fall into anxiety. Ending the day sometimes feels like death. Turning off consciousness and switching into recovery feels like abandoning myself in a crisis, like an act of “throwing myself away.” Like lying down on a highway where cars are speeding by. That’s why I feel so anxious and restless.
But even doing something makes me anxious and restless. The fear of “What if I fail?” makes me hesitant to even begin trying. So I suffer inside a feeling I can’t quite name—whether it’s laziness, lethargy, or fear. If holding onto something during the day is painful, and even stopping and letting go is painful, then isn’t this life filled with nothing but pain?
Wanting to Hold On to Today
Today is so painful, but maybe I’ve already grown used to this pain. And maybe the fact that I can feel it—and control it to some degree—makes me believe it’s predictable. The moment I take the pill, I have to let go of “today,” which I could predict and partially control, and face “tomorrow,” which is uncertain and uncontrollable.
The truth is, time is just a system humans decided on: an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year. It isn’t nature as it is; it’s a human-made convenience. That’s why some countries shift time every few years, and why months have different numbers of days. Even “today” and “tomorrow” are imaginary rules humans invented. They aren’t physical realities.
And yet, I relax because today has already passed—because it became the past and therefore feels predictable—and I grow anxious about tomorrow, where uncertainty waits again.
I Didn’t Complete Today
I have a perfectionistic kind of compulsion. I can’t always specify exactly what must be perfect, but in certain areas, I feel obsessed with being flawless. And that includes how I end a day. If today wasn’t satisfying enough, I feel like I have to stretch it—stay up later—do something, anything.
But as I said, for reasons I can’t fully untangle—laziness, lethargy, fear—I find it hard to do anything at all. And even when I do start, it’s incredibly hard to sustain. So most days, I do nothing. If it isn’t raining, I take a walk, and I write a little every day—just scribbles. And even the writing often ends halfway, unfinished. The studying and work I want to do either don’t happen, or I glance at them briefly and stop.
When all those fragments add up into a day, I usually feel the same failure: I didn’t complete today again. I feel unsatisfied, so I postpone sleep. And that leads to worse condition, sleeping in late, and an endless cycle.
Someone Who Prays I Sleep Well
I know the medication can help me sleep properly. But I’m afraid even of taking it. In a way, only the object of my fear has changed. Before, I was afraid of the act of trying to sleep itself. Now I’m afraid of the act of taking the pill.
Of course, sleep helps health—but my essential problem hasn’t been solved. And medication alone will not solve my sleep issues in the long run. Fundamentally, I have to change. I have to accept the transition from daily life to recovery as something positive. I have to stop being terrified of what I cannot predict. I have to be able to sleep by remembering what I did manage to do—even if the day wasn’t satisfying.
This behavior doesn’t improve easily on its own. That’s why it’s an illness. That’s why I go to the hospital and take medication.
But there is something even more effective than treatment like this. It’s people. On days when I spend time chatting freely with comfortable acquaintances over the phone, I feel sleepy even without medication. I can take the pill at the planned time and rest with an easier heart. In the end, the most effective medicine for mental illness is people—people who tell you it’s okay to be exactly who you are; people who believe you’ll be okay, but more than that, people who simply wish you a good night’s sleep today.
I want to become someone who can wish sleep for someone else, too.
#Thoughts_No_20250614
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[Netflix When Life Gives You Tangerines Review #6] Even Love Has a Class Structure
Is Love Really Classless?
People often say, “Love has no class.” It’s a beautiful belief—but reality tells a different story. Marriage, in the end, is a structure where the cultures of two families collide.
Different Baselines
No matter how much the poorer side prepares, their efforts rarely reach the sensibilities of the wealthier side. That’s because their worlds are built on entirely different baselines.
The affluent grow up with polished speech, unhurried gazes, and a rhythm that does not threaten others’ emotions. This isn’t something that can simply be learned later—it’s an emotional texture absorbed like air from early childhood.
The Texture of Emotional Wealth
That texture isn’t merely about manners or refinement. It’s the tone of people who live with less fear.
People who don’t become anxious—“Do they dislike me?”—when their opinions are rejected. People who aren’t shaken by others’ gazes. That calmness is the texture of emotional wealth.
Imitation Is Possible, Reproduction Is Not
So no matter how hard the disadvantaged side tries, that texture can be imitated but not reproduced. Because it isn’t the result of simple learning, but the generational accumulation of safety.
The Courage to Lower One’s Standards
For two different families to unite, someone must eventually let go. Not of money, but of standards—of the belief that “our way is absolute.” That shift in perspective is what’s required.
The Boundary Between Love and Institution
If the wealthier side can do that, marriage becomes a relationship.
But if they cling to “this is just how our family does things,” marriage turns into an institution that reproduces inequality within a relationship. Love is an emotional matter, not an institutional one. Yet once it enters an institution, love must confront structure.
The Courage to Admit Inequality
Acknowledging that love is not equal—ironically, that may be the only way to protect it. A marriage that lacks this awareness will inevitably be built on someone else’s pride.
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Cherry Blossoms
There were days like that.
Days when I wished the entire world would fall apart. Days when I wished no one would smile, no one would love, no one would be happy. There were days when children’s laughter made my skin crawl, when bright, sunny weather felt hateful—days when people smiling brightly filled me with a maddening mix of envy and disgust. Whenever I see cherry blossoms, those days come back to me.
That place was dazzling.
I entered Dongguk University after retaking the college entrance exam. Later, I took the exam once more and transferred to Yonsei University, but I did spend one semester at Dongguk. Dongguk University sits right at the foot of Namsan Mountain. Because of height restrictions within the campus, tall buildings cannot be constructed or rebuilt beyond a certain limit. From the central library, you can read while looking out at both Namsan and Namsan Tower—an almost unreal privilege. As a Buddhist university, meditation is a required liberal arts course, and there is even a temple called Jeonggakwon on campus. It is a place deeply connected to nature, calm and peaceful. There are many trees on campus, and in spring, the cherry blossoms bloom in radiant abundance. The path between Hyehwa Hall and Manhae Hall—or the Law Building—is especially beautiful, with cherry blossoms lining both sides of the road.
Those were the days.
I cried every single day. I couldn’t approach people easily. I had entered Dongguk University, and out of sheer inertia, I tried to get along with others—forcing myself to visit the department lounge whenever I could. But even when I went, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I was no longer someone who could trust people. I was someone who could no longer draw close to anyone. So I would simply sit there, occupying space. I became wary of others’ kindness. I wanted to be close to them, yet I was afraid of closeness. So I mostly lived with my mouth shut. During class, I participated actively and gave feedback, but the moment class ended, I fell silent again. Eventually, even occupying space that way began to feel meaningless, and I became afraid of opening the lounge door itself. There were times I stood in front of that door for a long while, wishing someone else would open it for me—because I didn’t have the courage to do it myself. If someone happened to come in or out, I would slip in through the gap. On days when no one opened the door, I would stand there blankly and eventually walk away without ever entering. From that point on, I ate alone and went to class alone. After all, there was no one who could understand my heart, and humans were not beings I could trust.
Near where I stayed, there was an elementary school. So when I was home during free periods or after classes, children’s laughter would drift in through the window. It was unbearable—that laughter. It was so bright, so completely beyond anything I could ever have again, that it terrified me. There was also a park nearby, filled with beautifully blooming flowers and lush trees that felt refreshing to the eyes. But the brightness hurt so much that my eyes would water constantly, as if someone were stabbing them. It wasn’t a metaphor—it truly hurt. Only now do I understand that it was a somatic symptom. Back then, I simply thought I had gone mad. (Well, in a broad sense, that wasn’t entirely wrong. Even now.) That spring, I walked with my eyes fixed on the ground. Crying while walking would have looked too pathetic. And if someone spoke to me, I had nothing I could say.
It was one of those days.
The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Unfortunately, I had attended a class in Hyehwa Hall and needed to walk to Manhae Hall or the Law Building for my next class—along that very path lined with cherry blossoms on both sides. I couldn’t allow myself to cry openly. So I walked with my gaze fixed on the ground. That was when someone stopped me. They said the cherry blossoms on this path were so beautiful and asked if I could take a photo of them against this beautiful backdrop.I hated it. It was horrifying—the fact that I had to look at something so beautiful. I was drowning in despair, yet the world was radiant, indifferent, glorious. And there was that middle-aged man—presumably a professor—smiling brightly against this beautiful world. His smile matched it all too well. I wanted no part of it. But I had no excuse, and I didn’t know how to refuse. I had never learned how to say no. So I agreed.
That was when I truly faced it. Through the camera lens of the phone in my hands, the dazzling world entered my eyes. Cherry blossoms in full bloom, as if blessing the world. Petals fluttering down like a baptism upon passersby. And the joyful smile of a middle-aged man who seemed perfectly at home in this beautiful world.
It was revolting. Horrifying. I hated it. I felt hatred. I wanted to destroy that smile. I wished all those petals would wither and die. As those impulses surged, nausea followed. I hurriedly took a few photos, handed the phone back, and ran into the bathroom of the Law Building. I vomited. I cried. I vomited again. I cried again. Sometimes I cried while vomiting. It was disgusting. Where did that disgust come from? From this beautiful world—or from me, a person who did not belong in it? Not knowing the answer, I cried silently for a long time. When I finally composed myself and stepped outside, the class I was supposed to attend was already over. The once-bright blue day had faded into an orange dusk. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to where I was staying.
Time Bombs
We often encounter news of random attacks or indiscriminate killings. Their stated reasons are that they hate society, or women, or men, or the rich, or happy people. Whatever their reasoning, they are criminals and deserve punishment. Sometimes, I even think the punishment defined by law is too light for their crimes. But that’s not what I want to discuss here.
They were not all born that way. Some may have been, but I believe the vast majority were not. How different are their logic and psychology from mine during those cherry-blossom days? Coldly speaking, I don’t think they’re very different at all. They and I were simply people wounded by society—or by someone. People who were especially vulnerable to being hurt.
So what is the difference between them and me? What made me live on, while they committed unforgivable crimes? Violence? Morality? Ethics? Innate temperament? I don’t know the exact answer. But one thing is certain: the direction of violence was different. They directed violence outward, harming others. I directed it inward, harming myself. Still, I did not make an irreversible choice. Then how am I different from those who harm themselves? Perhaps I am simply more afraid. So I live on with shallow suicidal impulses and shallow self-harm urges—scratching my body until it bleeds without even noticing.
If They Are Not So Different From Me
If those who harm others and those who harm themselves are not fundamentally different from me, then they were people society could have prevented. They are individuals wounded by society, whether publicly or privately. What is needed is a structure that prevents such wounds, a structure that enables recovery even after being hurt, and further, a structure that cultivates the very ability to recover. Usually, families fulfill this role. But sadly—and cruelly—not all families function as they should. Children raised in such environments are easily wounded, and their wounds heal poorly. Worse, they may not even know how to treat or manage wounds, allowing them to fester and rot into something far more severe—crime or extreme choices. Ideally, all families would function properly. But if reality does not allow that, can society—can the state—help compensate? This is not a new question, nor one I alone have asked. It resurfaces every time random violence becomes an issue. Yet people only rage briefly and then forget. And while they do, another child grows up carrying a festering wound.
Cruelly Radiant
This world has undeniably beautiful sides—people loving, cherishing, and trusting one another. But to some, that beauty is cruel. It is so radiant that they want it desperately, yet they have never had it and don’t even know how to obtain it. Some grow angry over what they lack and try to destroy it. Others fall into despair and give up on life. Still others blame themselves and struggle desperately to acquire it—only to push it further away through that very struggle. That’s why love and trust are infuriating things. Because they are, cruelly, so radiant.
#Thoughts_No_20250612