Just when I thought I couldn’t write poetic phrases anymore…
You again. Though I’d say you’re just a friend, the truth is you’re more than that. You’re my slave master.
In the dead of night, with a calming whisper, you awaken my thoughts.
On the cusp of sleep, as I start to drift comes the creek of Pandora’s box
And then it’s open. Mind open. Eyes open.
Another round of the no sleep game.
And that’s not all it is, it’s a cycle of anticipation and angst, reflection and sorrow, peppered with bouts of watching the clock and calculating how much sleep I might get before tomorrow.
I wrestle Goliath, I balance Atlas’ globe, I try desperately to shut you down, but still you probe.
A storm within me breaks – happiness, anger, heartache.
What’s interesting about the body is that it’s supposed to be a personal safe space. It’s yours, you own it, you control your place. But alas, on nights like these my body is not mine, because it’s tugged and pushed by everyone, everything, time after time after time.
I’m forced to surrender to tears, surrender to uncertainty, surrender to fears, surrender to whatever is hurting me. And others take up space where they likely don’t belong, “Get out of my head,” I silently scream, but their filler drones on.
Then, I get a break. I get ahold of these thoughts and start to fall asleep.
And just as I do, the baby monitor starts to weep.
Is my child tormented too? Is she overrun with indecision over what she’d like to do?
She’s likely just hungry.
Away from almost sleep I walk again, to comfort my baby. Please let this be fast. Please let her go easy on me. All I want to do is go to sleep.
Being fully awake only amplifies my inner monologue and everything becomes louder as I sink deeper into my psyche.
The phone buzzes. Why are you up? Why at this hour are you sending messages to me? The better question is, why am I writing back? Why am I engaging you in vivid conversation when clearly my mind is cashed? Why can’t we talk like this during daylight hours, and in person? Go fight your own insomnia battle. I’m clearly losing mine.
He rubs my back as I turn over. He touches my thigh and pulls me closer. Normally, I’d be thrilled to connect but not like this. Not when there’s only three hours left before the alarm and I still have yet to try to dream. Not to mention that I just don’t want to let anybody else in. No spooning, no sex, no cuddling and rocking to sleep, no feeding, no hand holding, no. I pray my body is mine to keep.
But that makes me a bad wife.
And a bad mom for not gleefully running to my baby’s beckon call but instead dreadfully dragging my feet.
And a bad owner for not letting the dogs sleep in my bed, and not being the first to rise to let them out a 0 dark 30 to piss.
And I’m a bad friend because of the things I dropped the ball on doing for you, even though you haven’t asked once in the past month if there’s anything you could do for me.
I’m a bad coworker, I’m a bad neighbor, I’m a bad daughter, I’m a bad whatever you say I am.
Marinating in these thoughts I just lie there.
Overrun with too much talking, I just lie there.
Just lie there, alone with the thoughts.
Just lie there.