I have not been able to get out of
bed since August.
I’ve had insomnia for years, and
fatigue forever, but it was August when I stopped working full time and
consequently fell into this hazy, open space. Freelancing allows for my
situation; for that I am grateful.
But I am still searching for the
reason I have been so tired lately, so needy for my bed that when I am out and
away from it, living, I fantasize about the sleep I so rarely get.
I suppose it started with the
medicines I take, how awful the prednisone is. It certainly has to do with my
illness, how so much of my time in bed is spent rocking back and forth in
silent pain. It has to do with how much water I drink and how that lends itself
to waking from a dream to pee and then padding, barefoot, back to my bed, where
the dim light of my computer on the bed stand appeals to me, if only just to
check the time.
But once the glow has captured me,
my brain repsonds to the light and I have checked Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr,
nymag.com, the Times and looked at an entire photo album of a long-forgotten
friend’s baby. I am tempted to leave comments here, at this time, 4 in the
morning. I ‘like’ things instead, my brain fully jolted awake but my fingers
unwilling to type, to write, to make use of this time.
So many of my nights lay in this
vast wasteland of time that does not really seem to matter or count because I
am not doing much. I read sometimes,
articles and beautifully rendered essays recommended by the writers and friends
on Twitter. I have at least ten open tabs with stories willing to be read, but
most of the time I am too tired to do that.
It is easier to click like than it
is to comment and it’s easier to watch three hours of 30 Rock than it is to
read something I should read, because it is right and plus, everyone else has.
My days are lost too, now. I sleep
but not until the morning sun has invaded my room, lighting up my bed, its
tangled sheets proof of my kicking and flailing in my sleep. The pain is easier
in my sleep, but it all leads to here, this consciousness that does not fade
until seven or eight am. And so I sleep until mid-afternoon.
I’ve been called lazy but this is
not just laziness, not all of the time. I wish it was just that, because that,
perhaps, is easier to fix.
But I am sick, and I have proof of
that to show you, if you wish. I don’t want to show anyone, or explain blood
tests and what having lupus and missing a thyroid will do to you. I’m tired of
explaining this to people who should know better, and I’m tired of not being
the person I want to be, the person who reads more and drinks in moderation.
The person who somehow says less and in doing that, says more. I want to be her, the best version of me, the me I am sure is
possible, with some coffee and some self-awareness...
But first, I’d really like some sleep.
