I can’t tell yet if I’m dreaming or just waking up. The feeling of comfortably floating is the most prominent sensory input I can process right now.
I feel the footprints of awareness pacing through my head, slow and muddled like a tortoise in quicksand now, but they’ll catch up.
They’ll catch up.
I”m still floating, but in my bed now, my big comfortable bed. I’m floating among the big fluffy comforter and the heavy feather pillows and the soft cotton sheets. I snuggle in a bit deeper and cross my fingers that I’ll simply fall back asleep so I won’t have to make any decisions today.
I open my eyes.
My dream of dreaming was not meant to come true today. It’s time to get up, get dressed, get ready. I’m not sure what I have on my schedule for today. Maybe a lot, maybe a little.
I roll out of bed.
I groan slightly with the effort; standing is a much a shock to my relaxed muscles as the blinding sunlight was to my sleep-adjusted eyes, but once I’m up, I’m up and at ’em. A few quick tosses and corner twitches, and my bed is made.
I rise on my toes.
Reaching my arms to the ceiling and rolling my shoulders provides a satisfyingly deep stretch, and I lower myself to my heels slowly. I glance left, and the key on my dresser reminds me of the mission I set for myself today. Time to get a move on.
The clock chimes seven.
I’m not sure how early the locksmith opens. I google it while brushing my teeth. He opens for business at eight. I brush a little bit slower. No point in loitering in the parking lot when I can loiter at home.
I’m out of sugar.
This does not bode well. My morning was going along swimmingly until the extremely light heft of the sugar bowl let me know that something is very wrong.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I tip up my mug and power through the dark bitterness of black coffee. Not my favorite thing to do, but it’s nearing time to get the heck out of Dodge.
My shoes wait next to the front door.
I jingle my keys in my fingers as I slip into ballet flats for the short trip to town. I trot down the front porch steps and hop in my car, and try to crank it.
I try to crank it.
But the damn thing’s dead. Too bad I couldn’t get back to sleep this morning. I guess I’ll get a spare key made tomorrow. Or the next day.
Cubing the Stories at TBP
See, I told you those ‘rules’ were optional. Rules schmules.
I took a nap today and had such vivid dreams. I woke up ready to cry because I was so upset. I can’t remember anything from my dreams today anymore besides being small and vulnerable and under attack.
I love remembering my dreams; I used to have a great one about flying when I was a kid. No wings or fighting to stay aloft, just swooping and soaring like Superman. I had a nightmare about my mother dying from a spider bite then, too.
Dreaming itself is a treat, though. I know I got fair enough sleep if it was deep enough to dream. I always feel more rested when I’ve had a few dreams.
The darkness has become my enemy
It’s not that I simply can’t sleep; it’s not only that. The creeping whispers come to me when I’m almost there, when I’m looking over the edge of oblivion. They come, and they stay. The fingers of aberrant thoughts twist and turn, writhing their way through the dry gray matter of my brain. They grasp at my synapses, leaving their greasy wet fingerprints on every facet of my being. Every part of myself is dirtied and broken.
I don’t remember anymore what it’s like to sleep peacefully, to sleep deeply, to lie restfully in my bed without disturbance. I don’t remember what it’s like to look in the mirror and see myself as I remember me, the snowy whites of my eyes glistening with health, the hair on my scalp mussed from sleep, sweet sleep. I don’t remember what it is to have pleasant dreams of castles in the sky.
I don’t remember.
I’m so tired.
I just want to sleep.
I can’t sleep with these horrible things prancing around in my head. I feel them push and pull, working their way inward until they find a quiet corner to set up shop and work on tricking me into believing that they’re my own thoughts. I rip out patches of my hair, scalp still attached, trying to distract them, trying to make them stop. But it’s too late for me. It’s too late to be free.
You should go to bed now, while you still can.
Did I tell you about the ‘results’ from my sleep study? I don’t think so.
Well, my family practitioner originally sent the request in because of a lot of bad stuff. Night terrors, sleep paralysis, hallucinations, that kind of crap.
I saw the neurologist, told him the same story, and he agreed that I needed a sleep study.
I finally had it in August, and the neurologist left me a message a couple weeks later that I had some mild to moderate breathing difficulties; he didn’t mention that I laid awake for most of the night.
Today I got a call from the sleep lab and got all scheduled up for another sleep study with CPAP titration this Sunday.
Argh!! It’s not about my breathing! I can’t afford a CPAP machine anyway, so it doesn’t matter if he thinks I need one or not. Why is it not an issue that I can’t get to sleep in the first place?? But heaven forbid I’m able to go back to the neurologist without another sleep study.
Oh, and of course I have breathing difficulty. My adenoids are huge. I’m also on my third set, since they grew back after twice being removed. They’re stubborn little guys. I should just slap a breathing strip on my nose and tell him to titrate that.
I finally had my sleep study Tuesday night. It was fun explaining to Abby where I was going; I settled on ‘the doctor wants to make sure I sleep okay, so I have to spend the night at his office.’ She threw some toys in my bag to keep an eye on me that night, and I sent Ian a picture after I set them up in my room.
I tried to explain to Ian how frustrating the whole thing was before I went. It was one of those times when I couldn’t help but feel like my sleep would be different afterwards, even while knowing that was silly, that I’d have one night of either better or worse sleep and then back to life as usual. Like one day of a substitute teacher, or having one massage. It’s a bit of difference, but it doesn’t change the natural order of things.
So I went. I waited while the sleep tech set up another patient, texting Ian and watching Shark Week. She came in to set me up, and we chatted during the hour it took. Of course she’d read my info, and we spent about half that time talking about PCOS, which she also has. It’s good to know that pretty much none of the area doctors care about it; she’s seen a few different ones than I have, and the best advice she’d gotten was to ‘try to lose weight, but it probably won’t happen.’
It was interesting to meet someone who was treating her PCOS for her health, without treating the infertility aspect, as she as her husband hadn’t ever tried to conceive. She wrote down some vitamins she’d found online that had regulated her periods for the past two years, so I may look into that.
She got me all hooked up, and I called to tell Ian and Abby goodnight and went to bed.
The worst part was that I had to spend a certain amount of time on my back. I’m not a back sleeper, and the sleep tech had to come in and ask me to roll onto my back once. So I spent about half the night awake on my back, nothing to look at but a tiny red light ad a tiny green light.
When she came to get me up in the morning, she affirmed that I’d only just begun to fall into deep sleep shortly before. Fortunately, she also let me know that I’d only had occasional airway obstruction, not that I was worried about sleep apnea. It’s my brain screwing up my sleep, not my body. I did get a little better sleep than usual that day after I got home. And Wednesday’s three hours sufficed. But I’m still tired from last night.
I’ll start with this: Lexapro sucks. I tried it about fifteen years ago, and it didn’t help me then, but I thought getting paid to take it might make up for something.
Now, now, I’m sure it helps plenty of depression sufferers, but it doesn’t help me. I’d venture that I’m worse; not because of depression, but because of sleep.
You know I have sleep issues. Deep, dark, evil sleep issues. But now I’m back to having problems falling asleep, and keeping my not staying asleep and early waking symptoms. Not every night, yet, but since I haven’t been dealing with that for a few months now, I have to get used to it all over again.
I think. Oh, I think. I hate it. I wish I knew if I can’t sleep because I’m depressed and think about this crap, or if I’m depressed and think about this crap because I can’t sleep. I really believe the latter is the issue. When I don’t dwell on things at bedtime, I don’t spend as much time thinking about them during the day.
I think about that fucking counselor. Her incompetence, her judgment, her lies. I wonder how, as an LMFT, she can ignore concerns about a child abuser. I wonder how, as a stepparent herself, she can tell me that I don’t parent. I wonder how, as someone who never achieved a viable pregnancy, she can criticize and trivialize my infertility. I wonder how, as a human being, she can do such a crappy job and live with herself.
I am hurt, and I am angry.
I wish I could go all Johnny Mnemonic and selectively dump a chunk of long-term memory. And it would be every second that had anything to do with that counselor. Because it isn’t the infidelity that I can’t cope with, it isn’t the struggle over Abby, it isn’t the rupture and subsequent ongoing repair of our marriage that keeps me up at night.
It’s the horrible things that were said and weren’t said in that room last summer. The things that were said, the things that were ignored, and the things that were just pulled from thin air for filler in her mockery of a ‘report.’
I feel like letting her continue to work for the court is like letting a rapist go free.