When I can't sleep and the world feels heavy

There are nights when there is no rest. It's not normal insomnia, nor that feeling of being "active" over trivial things. It's something else. It's that kind of sleeplessness that comes when your mind won't stop and neither will your heart. It's lying there and feeling that if you don't get up to do something, anything, anything that depends on you, your son could continue to suffer.

I don't sleep because I'm worried about Lobo. It's that simple and that brutal.

When he tells me he had the worst weekend of his life at nine years old, my world collapses. When I see him come back from his mother's house sadder, more tense, smaller, a fear that permeates everything fills me: fear that he'll be hurt, fear that he'll grow up believing things that aren't true, fear that he'll pay the price for decisions that aren't his.

Yesterday, in the school office, he had another anxiety attack. One of those that makes it clear that a child can endure a lot… until their body says enough. Seeing him like this cuts you to the core. There's no BPD, no diagnoses, no stories: there's just a father watching his son suffer.

And on those nights when he's asleep and I'm not, I sit in front of the computer until four in the morning, building a website, researching laws, requesting reports, organizing documents, brainstorming plans. I can't just get into bed and stare at the ceiling. If I do nothing, my mind takes me to places that are too dark. Working, creating, organizing… it's like holding onto a rope to keep from falling.

My psychologist, the one I've been seeing for over three years, told me straight today:

that I can't keep doing these "crazy" things, spending twenty hours without eating, without showering, without getting up, creating a website from scratch. That's not self-care. And yes, he's right. He's always right.

But there's also something he doesn't quite understand:

precisely because I can't avoid doing these things, I know I can help other people.

I know what it feels like when your mind drags you down. I know what it's like to not sleep, to never stop, to have no inner space. I know what it's like to fight against impulses, against sadness, against fear. And I know that, even so, you can keep going. That you can learn to hold on even when you're tired of yourself.

Sometimes I doubt myself. Of course I doubt myself.

I doubt whether I'm doing things right, whether what I'm carrying around is affecting Lobo.

And just when doubt creeps in, I return to my anchor thought, the only one that calms me:

The parents of Lobo's friends trust me.

They know my story. They know my diagnosis. They know everything.

And yet, their children come to my house, stay overnight, spend entire afternoons with me. They leave them with me because they feel safe. Because they see how I care for Lobo, how I protect him, how I listen to him. That kind of trust isn't given out of pity. That kind of trust is earned through actions.

And then there's the phrase that kills me, heals me, and lifts me up all at once:

the one Lobo repeats to me over and over, without hesitation, without filters, without doubt:

"Dad, you're the best father in the world."

Maybe I'm not.

But I'm his.

I'm the one who's there.

I'm the one who doesn't give up for anything or anyone.

I'm the one who fights even when my own symptoms are squeezing me.

And if he, at nine years old, feels it that way… if he sees security, love, and a home in me…

Then every sleepless night is worth it.

Every internal struggle.

Every tear hidden in the bathroom.

Every early morning spent building something that gives me the strength to keep going.

Because in the end, all of this, everything I do, everything I fight for, has a name.

And that name is Lobo.

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