#13 I can’t sleep
“I don’t sleep; I collapse” was my go-to phrase…. not anymore.
I've never been afraid of the dark, although I've never been a great of it fan either. Let's say I tolerate it because it's part of life, and it would be very silly of me to pretend I can avoid it. I accept a lot of stuff I do not like or enjoy. It's part of the game. Lately, though, I've had some monsters visiting at night, and I am not referring to the kids. Those are under control most of the time. I've seen myself staring at the ceiling, rolling in bed, and overthinking. I should not think so much at night; I should dream, but I have nightmares whenever I fall asleep. And it sucks.
Some time ago, I joked with my colleagues at work about my sleeping patterns: "I don't sleep; I collapse." But that's not true anymore. It started a few weeks ago when I decided to write at night. I felt so energetic and full of ideas that I did not want to stop. Even better, I couldn't. Stories, characters, and details flooded my mind, and it would be a waste to let it go just because I felt tired, so I chained myself to the laptop- emotionally- and typed as if my life depended on it. After all, everyone says you need to write more to write better; that was my plan. That night, I wrote the saddest, most emotional story ever. I poured my heart on the pages. With every word I typed, I felt a punch in the chest. Pure gold, I thought. When I closed the laptop, I was exhausted, which has always been my perfect recipe for sleeping like a baby, but that's not what happened. That night, I rolled from side to side more times than I could count; I looked at the watch, the window, the walls... It felt like time had stopped, and I was trapped in a white box. It was not better when I finally fell asleep because I woke up multiple times, sweating and scared, dreaming about all those things I had written about. It was not pretty.
The morning finally arrived, and I felt horrible. I was tired, sore, and fearful. It seemed I had absorbed all those things I'd written about, relived them, and become them: pure sadness. That was my state of mind. A couple of hours after waking up, a headache settled in my head, which took all my energy to do anything but lay on the couch looking at the ceiling. That's how I started to speak with myself, not minding the possibility of looking like a crazy person:
"Is that me? A compulsive writer who will kill herself writing for the sake of productivity? And what if I don't do it? What if I decide I have to do less? Because I know myself, and that's something I cannot live with. Doing less... grrrr... what a notion of waste. People will say it was expected. Who was I to think I would always be successful? As if statistics did not matter in my life... This is a question of time: I am about to burn out again. I cannot control myself. I have a serious issue of control addiction, and still, I cannot control myself. What a joke I am..."
I looked at the ceiling for hours and then closed my eyes. I thought about everything I'd written, but this time, I did what I used to do with others: family, friends, coworkers... I was kind to myself. What I should do every day, I did once on that sofa, in the company of the worst migraine ever. I told myself to stop. I told myself it does not matter what others think. "This is my life, not a competition," I told myself out loud, but I know I didn't believe it because since then, I haven't stopped: I've kept working, delivering, and being present. I've put smiles on the rainy days and cookies on the festive ones. I've become a writer who can't sleep and doesn't know how to change it. Or maybe I know, and I just don't want it... I'll think about it... tonight.
