The digital clock on my nightstand glows an accusatory 2:13 AM, its red numbers burning my retinas. As I roll over for the thousandth time, the sheets tangle around my legs. My bedroom, once a sanctuary, has become a prison cell. The familiar outlines of furniture loom in the darkness, taking on sinister shapes in the shadows. The green stars of a night light cast an eerie glow on the ceiling. The curtains flutter slightly in the breeze from the fan.
This is only my most recent visit to the space between consciousness and sleep. Over the last year, my nightly dance with insomnia has left me both exhausted and wired. My mind races, a carousel of worries and regrets that won’t stop spinning. Will my mom ever feel better? Are my kids going to grow up and be decent people? Why did I say that silly thing earlier today? Will anyone ever really want to be my friend? I quickly calculate that if I fall asleep right now, I’d have exactly three hours of sleep. Anxiety coils in my stomach, a physical presence that drives sleep even further away.
I focus on my breathing. In, and out. In, and out. My body starts to feel heavy, sinking into the mattress. And yet there’s a restless energy thrumming through my veins, an incessant urge to move. I throw off the covers and head to the bathroom, my bare feet padding silently on the faded teal carpet. I focus on the floor pushing up on my feet, the smoothness of the water glass as I bring it to my lips, the car lights that shine through the picture window as they pass by. The house creaks and settles around me. I envy its ability to find peace in the night.
Back in bed, I toss and turn. My mind refuses to quiet; every position is uncomfortable. My pillow is too flat, then too puffy. The room is too warm, then too cold. My hips hurt from lying in one position too long, and my arm falls asleep. I can’t find that elusive perfect spot that will finally let me settle.
As the night continues, my thoughts take a darker turn. What if I never sleep again? How does this affect my mood and stress tolerance during the day? How can I be patient with my children or be productive at work if my physical needs are not being met? How is this shortening my lifespan? The fear of sleeplessness becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, anxiety feeding insomnia feeding anxiety in an endless loop. I feel myself spiraling, falling into a pit of despair as black as the night around me. In a short while, my alarm will sound. The weight of the coming day presses in, squeezing my chest and shortening my breath. The thought of navigating work, social interactions, childcare, and basic tasks on another empty tank fills me with an indescribable weariness.
The first hints of dawn begin to creep around the edges of my curtains. Birds taunt me with their cheerful and energetic morning chorus. The world is awake, moving forward, while I’m stuck in this limbo between night and day. My thoughts, so sharp and insistent earlier, begin to blur. My limbs feel heavy, and I finally surrender to exhaustion.
All too soon, my alarm clock sounds. I linger between sleep and wakefulness for a little while longer before rising to start my day. I clear the crust from my eyes and stretch. As I stumble to the bathroom, catching sight of my haggard reflection, I make a silent promise to myself. Tonight, I’ll try something different. Mindfulness, writing my thoughts and feelings, no coffee past noon. Anything to break this cycle of sleepless nights.
In the meantime, I brace myself for the day ahead. Coffee will be my crutch, and sheer determination my fuel. I’ll do what I can to show up as my best self today, and then I’ll try again tonight. Because one of these nights, I will find my way back to the land of dreams and peace.
I take a deep breath, and begin my day.
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