I haven’t been sleeping. Two nights ago, awake and shaking with the residual fear of my new favorite TV crime drama, I wondered what it would feel like to stop thinking. I wasn’t just re-playing scenes of girls stuffed in car trunks; I was swimming, drowning in thoughts that didn’t make any sense, that I don’t think I could repeat. I finally went into my sister’s room and, unplugging her fan, convinced her to follow me back to my bed so that we could face my demons together. She groaned and followed me, but immediately fell asleep. With my knees pulled into my chest I think I may have slept.
The same thing happened last night: an inexplicable affront of thoughts. This time my boyfriend was lying next to me; I rolled into him so that his body might absorb some of my pain. He rolled away and pulled his blanket tighter around his self. No one likes to be disturbed in his sleep. God, there’s something so safe and secure about the haze of dreams and unconsciousness. It’s my favorite thing. Then why is it escaping me? All day I felt heavy and distant and I shook again, this time not in fear but in complete disgust. Am I regressing? Am I sinking into my mind and looking through those rose colored glasses of my past? I can’t put a finger on the pain of endless, needless, relentless thoughts but I know what it can do to me. I don’t want to sleep alone, be alone, feel that I will ever be alone again.
No happy ending, yell of “cut!” and a succinct quote to tie it all together. I could, though, really go for a nap.