Friday, November 9, 2012

My waking life

I have not had a good night's sleep in close to a week now.  Okay, that's kind of a lie.  I haven't actually had a good night sleep in 2 years, 2 months and 5 days.  And that's only partly true.  My good nights' of sleep ended years ago, as a sophomore in college when what started off as a normal Saturday night on a college campus turned into a nightmare that I still haven't gotten over (So, now I feel I have to explain...I had a man break into my dorm room; I was fine/am fine, minus the not being able to sleep thing).  Like most, I value sleep.  I love it.  I need it.  I've always wanted to be one of those people who didn't need much of it, like my husband, say, who can go for days on just 5 or so hours.  That's not me.  It's never been.  And when I am sleep deprived, one of two things generally happen: I cry, or I turn into a royal b*%$h.  Either way, I am no fun to be around.  So I generally like to spread out my nights of not sleeping.  I will stock up, you know, and get a good 10 hours one night, a solid 8 in the next, knowing full well that I plan on going crazy the next night, getting only 6 hours of sleep.  You read that right. Only six.  Of course then I need to make up for those lost hours and so it's back to 10, then 8...Except the last couple of weeks got the better of me.  They started off with a hurricane, followed by a prom, a presidential election, a sick baby boy and a snowstorm.  Any one of those would be enough to set me back for days.  And each one did.  But, each one was a reminder of how life can get away from you.  It became November 1st and then it became November 9th.  Just like that.  Nothing in between.  Or, actually, everything in between.  From fear, to joy to pride to love, each one got me the past 2 weeks.  And I am tired.

Now it's Friday night.  My baby is sleeping.  My husband is playing soccer.  I should be sleeping.  But I'm not.  Instead I am laying on the couch, writing this.  The way I used write down my dreams when I was little.  I kept a journal by my bed and would wake up in the morning and lay there until I could remember each and every corner of my dream.  Sometimes I would remember pieces later on in the day, or get a feeling that I knew was shared from the night before. I never planned to do anything with those stories.  In fact, I am not sure I still have any of the journals.  They were strictly utilitarian. But they held stories, the ones I kept about my sleeping life.  Now, as I lay here typing on a Friday, I have moved on to my waking life.  And it turns out, that no matter how good sleep is, it just doesn't compare to the stories I am writing now.

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