Sleepless in Not a Romantic Comedy

I’m praying to whatever god or genie or ghost that has full command of my sleep cycle, because I sure as hell don’t. I have memorized every infographic and article about sleep hygiene.

  • Make sure to stop eating, exercising, and ruminating about exes on a very regimented timeline
  • Avoid blue light like a reverse vampire after sunset
  • Calibrate the room temperature with the accuracy of three thermometers and your big toe
  • The use of guided meditation and reading is strictly prohibited because of the risk of subconsciously connecting those vital activities to falling asleep.

And I was convinced that I had this all down to a science. The blind obedience would appease the circadian rhythm. YET HERE I AM singing half portions of Hamlet’s soliloquy in flat warbles with a made up melody. A wonderful activity that would put me in the mildly concerning category to any sensible mental health professional.

I am beyond grateful that I live in a different room and a different apartment and a different city than a year ago. This was the first time that in the swirl of frustration and haunting isolation that I was able to think that life is still a gift. Running my hands over the folds in my bed sheets in the glow of a temperamental streetlight, was feeling that in the smallest speck of the universe I exist. Which even in the most careful words is not completely devoid of gibberish or poorly attempted profoundness.

I know waking up tomorrow will be it’s own nightmare and that fitting Gaussian distributions to polymer dynamics will most likely be even worse. I still have mountains of insecurities and psychological problems to solve. I don’t feel alone for once and it’s not because I regularly share the bed with a cat that refuses to share a quilt with me (although it helps a little). I wonder if there’s something that has grown within me that will finally stay through the pain.

I can only dream.