Woke up this morning at 4:30 to the sound of crashing and shouting. My heart immediately began racing, my adrenline waking me instantly. The couple next door was fighting. Fighting hard. The kind of fighting that sometimes spills over into hurting. There was screaming and crying, shrill voices piercing the walls, doors shuddering with the shake of slam. I lay there, trying to calm myself, slow my pulse. There were lulls of quiet, serious talking, and I’d hold my breath hoping it was over. Covers pulled up to my chin, tucked into the curve of j’s steady sleep, thinking “everything is okay, just relax and close your eyes”. Only to hear it build to another crashing crescendo. Sleep was a distant dream, and I lay there in still, taut anxiety until morning came – waiting to hear the sounds of silence.

It’s a visceral, gut-knotting reaction. When I was 18, my parents split up, and I was home for that whole terrifying summer – a summer full of nights of crashing and shouting. Nights of being awakened in the early hours, heart in my throat, thudding in my ears. Fighting that spilled into shattering, splinters of black fear flying. a summer of sleeplessness and sirens.

That was 15 years ago – and it lays buried, but not dead, in the back of my drowsy subconscious. Waiting to be stirred to wakefulness with the right kind of scream. watching for the safety of the light of day.

ben folds – still fighting it

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