I am tired. I live in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation.
get more sleep... that's the recommendation.
Sure. No problem. As if I enjoy defying sleep patterns. I don't stay up all night having a party by myself. I stay awake because it's terrifying to sleep.
I close my eyes. I feel my head on the pillow; my hands touch the sheets. It's dark and my heart starts to pound. The bed begins to spin. My head screams and my chest aches as I wait. Wait for nothing. I am waiting for a dead man who lives on so vividly in my mind. Wait for the night where he does not appear.
I know that a few hours a night isn't good. It's also not good to sleep in the corner on the floor. I do both with freakish mastery.
I go through periods of time where I can tolerate sleeping in a bed. But I can't stomach it right now. So while my anxiety is racing, I wait for my husband to fall asleep. And then I move. Corners are safe. And the floor isn't a bed.
Bad things happen on beds.
After a few hours of hard fought sleep my corner is awake as he approaches in the dark. I stand and slip out of the room where my husband never wakes. I turn on the lights as the dead man begins to fade. He wishes me good night and with a wink he tells me he will see me soon.
I clean. I read. I write. I draw. I make my husband coffee and pretend that I haven't been up all night. The early light melts the terror as dreadful relief lets me know another night has passed with a new day on the brink.
My eyes are clouding with that familiar ache. A dark periphery is depression's single warning. I fight to keep my eyes open; to keep my vision clear. But heavy eyelids pull the sadness in as I contemplate the Sleep.
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