Friday stream of consciousness

I am writing this from my backyard while the sun gently drops behind the fence. Mosquitoes are feasting on my skin, but I do not care. I am alone. 

We live behind a middle school, which I have never minded until now. Some people would probably hate living this close to a school (particularly junior highers), but I find the sound of kids running laps along our fence during PE to be oddly comforting. Familiar. I even enjoy the sound of the bell ringing a handful of times each day. 

Before the world fell apart and everything closed, the middle school behind our house broke ground on a makeover. We’ve seen the plans but never made it to any of the town hall meetings so if you were to ask me to explain exactly what they’re doing over there, I would just stare at you with empty eyes and shrug. 

This is what I know so far: the shelter-in-place mandate has not slowed or stopped the plan whatsoever, and my backyard is now, essentially, a construction site. From 7am to 5pm, every weekday, giant machines roar and growl and spit clouds of dust into our yard. It is 7:40pm as I write this, and it’s the first time I’ve been able to hear birds today. 

Last week I had to go outside to just sit in my car for a minute. I really miss being alone. I miss a lot of things. 

My insomnia has gotten worse, which I didn’t think was possible. I wake up every night at 2:57am. Sometimes 2:58. On very rare occasions, 2:59. Never ever at 3am on the dot, which I find extremely odd. Most nights, I don’t go back to sleep. I pray for a while, and then I stare at the ceiling until Brett’s alarm goes off. Some nights, when I can’t stare at the ceiling anymore, I head to the living room couch and turn on Parks & Rec while I wait for the sun to come up. Usually, by 4:45, my stomach is growling. I fix a bowl of cereal, my first breakfast. 

This has been going on for weeks. I usually fall asleep by 11pm, so, on average, I am getting four hours of sleep each night. If that sounds horrendous, it is. If you think I probably look awful, I do. The circles under my eyes are so deep and so purple that even after applying multiple layers of the best concealer I’ve found, I still look exhausted. 

If you’re wondering what I’ve tried, the answer is everything. I’ve tried every sleeping pill the pharmacies have to offer. Melatonin gummies, melatonin pills, melatonin bubble bath. I’ve tried Epsom salts and CBD and magnesium. I’ve tried different pajamas, different sheets, lavender spray on everything. I’ve tried making the room cooler, warmer, sleeping with socks and without socks. I’ve tried not eating before bed, I’ve tried drinking “sleepytime” tea. If it says “sleep” on the label, I have bought it. I am a marketer’s dream. Put zzzz’s on the label and I’m all in, baby. I sleep with an eye mask and a sound machine. I rarely have caffeine after noon.

And still. Every night, 2:57am, there I am. Awake, awake, awake.

***

I read a negative review of my work today, which felt like reading a negative review of myself. It was anonymous, submitted through a private form I hardly ever check, but today, for whatever reason, I did. 

You’d think after creating content on the Internet for over ten years, I would be unfazed by stuff like this. I feel weak admitting how much it bothered me, but it did bother me and to pretend otherwise would be dishonest. I’m not even sure what bothered me more—what she said or when she said it.

It’s a rather strange thing, to be in the middle of a global pandemic reading a negative comment about your work. Your art. This thing you are somehow still pouring love and energy into on four hours of sleep and zero childcare.

Today, I will confess: it sent me over the edge.

It became too much. The baby emptying every cabinet and every drawer. The pee on the floor in the bathroom. The ants in the kitchen, STILL. The kids and their relentless requests for snacks. We’re out of food, again. The machines rumbling across the yard all day. Did I mention they shake the house? Like a miniature earthquake? Today I sat at my computer desperately trying to cram an hour’s worth of work into twenty minutes, all while picture frames and mirrors rattled on the walls. 

Doesn’t she know? I am doing the best I can with what I have.

Aren’t we all?

***

A friend asked about the insomnia yesterday, what was causing it. Why so bad? Why now?

I considered this for a moment, if there could be an actual reason my body has decided to wake up abruptly at 2:57am and the best one I came up with is this: it is quiet. At 2:57am, everyone in my house is sleeping. The house is dark, still, peaceful. And my brain has come to (subconsciously perhaps) seize the opportunity. 

It’s the first time I can think, uninterrupted. It’s the first time I can process my own emotions, say a coherent prayer, be alone in my thoughts. 

Is this what it’s come to? I can’t be alone during the day so my body has naturally readjusted and decided to wake up every night at 2:57am as a consolation prize? 

Over the weekend I ordered a weighted blanket. I had low expectations, as I do with anything that promises a better night’s sleep, but I was bored and had an hour to do Internet research, so I read approximately 50 reviews on Amazon and finally put one in my cart. 

The one I bought had 1700 reviews. 93% were positive; 7% were negative.

Do you think the people who make those blankets ever read the reviews? I wonder if they ever think about the criticism in the middle of the night while they eat cereal on the couch.

I wonder if they even care.
I wonder if I care too much.

For the record: I’ve slept with that blanket for two nights now and don’t know how I ever lived without it. I am still waking up at 2:57. But by the time I finish praying and flip over to my other side, I fall back asleep. 

I think I’ll leave them a nice review tomorrow.