when thoughtful and thoughtless mean the same thing

Wide awake. It's 1am. My mind is once again traveling the distance to make me completely restless. But I'm not restless, nor am I upset about anything right now. I'm calm. At ease, though the pain lingers, as usual. I feel content. I can breathe easily as long as I don't start to count or think about each breath I take. That would cause a panic attack, as it usually does. But I'm calm. And I haven't felt this calm in a long time. Though a part of me is worrying about the stresses and tasks I need to conquer, I'm calm. This is strange to me. Normally when its late, and my mind will not slow down, I start to worry. I started reading "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert last night. As soon as I started reading, I felt a sense of relief. I'm not sure if its because I haven't picked up a book and just started reading in quite some time or if its Gilbert's words that have placed me in this unfamiliar mood. Though I cannot solely give this book the credit for how I'm feeling, I'm thankful for it. As far as getting any sleep tonight, its doubtful. My body is so so tired. I take on more than I can handle between the 30 minute drive to school, the 4 hours of class sitting in one position, the drive home, and then the thought of doing something productive as soon as I unlock the door...this is a considerable amount for the pain that I call my evil shadow. Regardless, I'm sitting here on my couch wishing I could do more, find another thing to do that will be productive as if scrubbing my shower for an hour wasn't productive enough. But I want to go, go, go. I suppose I'll continue reading Eat, Love,Pray. When I was a kid, I would worry about life as if I were an adult and I could never sleep and my mom used to always tell me to read a book and I would fall asleep before I even knew it. To this day, I can hardly make it through a chapter at night. And though pain follows me everywhere I go, laughing hysterically, continuously yelling at me, and attempting to steal every ounce of strength I have in me, it does not define me. So if reading a book is as productive as I get, I'm content with it. Because I've gained something besides fulfilling pain's self-destructing game of self pity. I refuse to play it, at least for tonight. And that in itself is a step to living as a human being should.