The light streaming into my
bedroom woke me up this morning. I decided not to close the curtains last
night, tired of sleeping in, tired of being tired. It didn’t work. When the
light first caught my eye, around twenty minutes past seven, I closed my eyes
tight and drew the white duvet over my head. “Ten more minutes,” I told myself,
tossing from side to side, hoping to fall back asleep. Each time I opened my
eyes after that, my head felt heavier and heavier, my body more lethargic and
dense. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I wanted to stay there, where I felt
safe.
The next time I looked at the
clock, it was four minutes past eight. “Six more minutes.” That was what I was
going to allow myself. I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling, recalling
fragmented images from my dream. I’ve been dreaming more since I’ve been on a
prescribed sleeping aid. I want my sleep to be normal again so that I can fall asleep
naturally, on my own. I want to stop dreaming, I want to avoid those other
worlds that leave me drained.
In last night’s dream, I was a student
in a literature class. It was the first class of the semester, and the
professor was late. The only reason I had even signed up for the course was because
I had a crush on a guy in the class. I don’t know his name, but he had
mesmerizing brown eyes and a gold-winning smile. The classroom phone rang, and
for some reason I answered it. Two students from the professor’s next course
called to say they would be late because they were playing in a badminton
competition in Little Italy, which was located close to the building where the
class was held. It was some type of festival and the street in front of the
building was closed. When the professor came into the classroom, I gave him the
message. He came over to me and made a comment about my black pants and touched
my leg. Then the professor moved off, and the guy with the mesmerizing eyes,
seated two rows away, looked at me and smiled. I woke up still not knowing his
name.
Don’t ask me what that means
because I don’t really know. Maybe it doesn’t mean a thing, but the dream felt
real. I woke up feeling like I had really lived those moments. I don’t know
what a phone was doing in a classroom anyway, or why I answered it. But it was
white and looked like an antique, from the early 1900s.
I sat up quickly in my bed, a way
to jilt myself into action. I was tempted to sleep away the day, to give myself
over to the heaviness swarming over my body. I dressed and went downstairs,
opening the curtains in the living room on the way to the kitchen. I turned on
my laptop, set the coffee to brew, and took my medication.
Cipralex. It’s an antidepressant.
I’ve been back on it for twenty-nine days at the writing of these words. I had
gone off of it at the beginning of June, under the supervision of my doctor,
because I was feeling great, on top of the world. It was a high. But when the
high burst, I came crashing down. My sleeping, even with the sleep aid, was no
longer restful or consistent. I was back to waking up five or six times a
night. I couldn’t concentrate. I would just sit at my desk, or the kitchen
table, and stare blankly at the computer screen or pages spread out in front of
me. I couldn’t think. Think. Do you
know what I mean? I couldn’t make sense of my thoughts, jumbled and erratic. Like
a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, I couldn’t piece it all together. I couldn’t
see my worth.
I don’t know what happened this
morning. I mean, I don’t know what happened to the morning. It slipped by
without me seeing it, without me being present. I’m stalled again. My engine
won’t start. My wheels are spinning. I finished the rewrite of a novel two days
ago. It was a hard rewrite, and there is still more work to be done but I know
that, at present, the manuscript needs to rest (and maybe I do, too). I need to
come at it again in a few months refreshed. I need to be able to see things
clearly. Now the question is: What next?
I don’t know why it is, but I feel
empty after the completion of a big project. It’s that void that has me
stalled. I want to jump right in to something new, but my body wants time to
decompress. I don’t want to rest; I don’t want to listen to my body. And in not
listening, I’m setting myself up for a fall. I know that. But yet I want to
press on. I’m stubborn that way.
What next?
The questions itself is
terrifying. It’s like there’s something that I’m missing, something that I just
can’t put my finger on. I’m trying to find my way in a world that I feel completely
at odds with. I’m trying to find a way to survive. I’m trying to find a way to
let the beauty of this world once again take possession of my heart, fill me
with a joy unspeakable.
I wrote a song this week,
entitled, “Sweet Embrace.” It was inspired by a conversation I had with a young
artist. In the greyness of the day, and in spite of the uncertainty before me, I’m
trying to simply let myself be held in life’s sweet embrace.
What’s next? I don’t know. And I’m
not sure that knowing really matters anymore …
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