How Not to Get Sleep

I've been so tired this last week or more. I am trying to get more sleep, but the sleep has not been fulfilling. Last night, I decided to go to bed very early in hopes of breaking the cycle and catching up on some sleep, but instead, I ended up just laying there bored. As tired as I was, sleep would just not come. And my body felt hot and sticky, even though the air was cold. I have learned from experience that when my body feels hot for no good reason, sleep will never come. So finally, I got up again and read a book for another hour and a half until my body began to feel the cold air again.

I slept for maybe an hour before waking to feel a nagging energy moving along my spine. Sometimes, energy there feels good but other times, like last night, it just feels irritating and exhausting. I lay awake for another half hour and then tried something that sometimes works. I don't know why, but sometimes if I turn around in the bed so my feet and head have reversed position, then I can get some sleep.

It worked for a while. I slept for another hour, until I heard a beep beep beep noise coming from the storage room that shares a door with my bedroom. My mother had piled all manner of storage items on shelves in that room and for the last month, something occasionally omitted beeping noises from there late at night. The beeping was short lived and always occurs late at night when I was sleeping, and each time, by the time I raced in there to find the noisemaker, the sound had already shut off before I could decipher what was making it. But over time, I had at least narrowed it down to a general location and this night, I raced into the room with renewed determination. And at long last I found it! Tucked into a corner behind some spray cans was a tiny portable battery operated alarm clock that was no bigger than the size of a large thumb. Victory! I had located the late night noise maker. I turned the alarm option to 'off' and waltzed back into my room plenty pleased to have finally solved that problem. Finally, I would get some sleep!

Then I lay for another half hour bored but no sleep. I almost decided to try my most desperate strategy, which is to lay on the hard floor. For some reason, which I fathom not, when I feel hot for no good reason and cannot sleep, I have found that if I lay on the hard floor for about 30 minutes, I can usually sleep after that. But who wants to lay on a hard floor for 30 minutes! Not me, that is for sure. And luckily, I finally drifted off before having to exercise that option.

Except that several hours later, I was suddenly jarred awake when my right hand and arm, apparently for no good reason, shot out from under the covers and clutched at the air violently, as if to catch an invisible fly or something. I didn't even know that my arm could move that fast! And why had I done that? I was not aware of having been dreaming and I am very good at remembering recent dreams. Now I was somewhat unnerved by the apparently illogical and alien actions of my own hand. In fact, I had clenched my hand so roughly and quickly that the ring finger nail had gouged itself into the flesh on the outside of my thumb, and now as I lay there not sleeping and feeling a bit freaked out, I could feel the top of the thumb throbbing from where I had gouged myself.

But by this time, I was oh so very tired and despite the weirdness, I managed to drift off again. I dreamt about a place where 10 foot tall brown plywood walls had been erected all around for the sole purpose of displaying artworks. The walls had been set up as if to form roads and allyways, but all the traffic was foot traffic and there was plenty of it! This was a culteral meeting place where many people would walk and discuss the art that had been given by volunteers. Theft was not an issue and neither was money. Surely, this must have been in another kind of world, but all the people looked human and I felt that this was a place I had visited countless times before. Ironically, I was not much interested in the art itself, but I loved the place for it's happy ambiance and good memories. I dallied here for a while until, in a semiconscious state, I knew it would soon be time to wake up and go to work. But now I was so tired that I did not want to face waking up!

I considered other options. Maybe I could just open one eye for a while and work my way up to two eyes. I tried this and it seemed easier. I opened the one eye and saw through a small round aperature the sight of several people walking around in the front part of a store. This one eyed seeing seemed relaxing until a part of me realized that eyesight does not involve little round aperatures and my bedroom is not in a store. Therefore, I must not actually be seeing with my eyes!

I was starting to become lucid and determined to see more so I opened both my 'eyes' and watched as people came through the swinging glass doors of this place. First came several black guys in their 20s dressed in casual clothes. They were my homies and I was glad to see them but despite that, we all remained subdued in our greeting. Behind them came a powerful figure of a black woman, tall and trim and looking to be in her 40s. Her hair was set into some kind of ultra refined dreadlock type style like thin cords of hair, that balanced beautifully with her handsome face and high cheakbones. This was a powerful and stately woman both in appearance and in demeanor. SHe commanded respect and was accustomed to getting it. And by the stern look on her face, she was not happy with me.

I smiled tightly and followed them all to a long rectangular table where we all sat down. She began to lecture me about being irresponsible. She spoke of some trouble that "Tony" had gotten into and talked about how it related to me, and I heard myself respectfully saying "Yes Ma." I had been gone away from them for a while and had not told them before I left. Even now, I had told them very little of what I had been doing and most of this meeting would be about me telling her as little as possible. She was angry but as the night wore on, I expected she would loosen up. I would just have to listen and do my best until the mood lightened. Even now, I longed to make a joke about sweet and sour sauce that someone's comment had triggered, but I knew it was too soon. Joking now would only anger my mother, but hopefully later, we could turn to a lighter mood. Meanwhile, all of us would wait patiently.

A part of me that was still me and not the black man was listening and trying to take notes. I jumped on the name "Tony" and vowed to remember it, but much of the rest was gone moments after waking. And waking I did, this time for real, as that day's work still demanded my attention. I crawled out of bed and considered the nights fitful events. Wondering about the incident with the grabbing hand, I inspected the back of my right thumb and found the stabbing imprint still there and sore, so I knew the whole thing had not been a dream. I had really grabbed out into the air for some reason and I had really stabbed into my own thumb. But why? Now my eyes were blurred from grogginess and a light pain between my eyes would be slow to resolve itself. My thumb hurt and so did my shoulder, perhaps also from the violent flailing motion of the grab. Looks like it would be another day of tired exhaustion.

Maybe tomorrow I would get to bed early and catch up on some sleep!

All My Children

She lays still, a tall thin figure reduced to a diminutive bump under the antique white quilt of the massive dark wood bed. She is rolled onto her side in a fetal position facing away from me towards the nearest wall, her long dark hair in disarray, the covers barely disturbed around her. The lighting is dim and the drapes are pulled tight against the domineering sunshine. The delicate peach pink color of the expensive shag carpet pervades the room, even on the several steps that lead up to the spaceous bathroom. Despite the rich surroundings, a feeling of stagnation and depression fills the air.

The woman thinks to herself, "I am depressed because of All My Children."

At the time, I think she is referring to the soap opera of the same name, but after I wake up, I wonder if she meant something else.

My Life and 2 Cents

[A dream about a girl]

My life is not worth 2 cents, I know that. I’ve always known it. It’s not something I get emotional about. It’s just a fact. When I was a kid, I used to live with a hunchbacked lady who lived in a big house. The house was not hers. She lived with another family. She spent all her time hunched over in a blue short sleeved shirt and white pants, sitting bent over a sewing machine, her long black hair with grey streaks always pinned in the same messy bun at the back of her head. I don’t remember her doing anything else but that. Thinking about it, maybe she didn’t really have a hunched back, but sitting there like that, she sure looked like she did and that’s how I remember her.

I remember I got my food sitting at the kitchen table with another couple and some of their kids. I guess they were the ones who owned the house but I’m not sure. I know they provided the food, while the other woman with the bun sat hunched over in her room, because sometimes she wouldn’t even come out for food. Other than that, I don’t really remember much about those times. I remember there was lots of fabric around and needles to poke your hand on if you weren’t careful. It wasn’t much fun.

I remember I would run around too much. That’s what they told me. I needed to be more quiet and stop running. Running in the house was bad. Therefore, I was bad. I didn’t know how to contain myself. I kept forgetting, and then I would run.

One time I tripped on the carpet coming down the stairs and ran into someone coming up with a tray of food and drink. Red liquid spilled all over the expensive hall carpet. I knew that was bad, but no one said anything that time. They didn’t bother to tell me I was bad. They didn't even yell. Maybe they thought I already knew it by then.

It was not long afterwards that I was standing outside in the driveway surrounded by three boxes and some small pieces of furniture. A car was coming for me. All my stuff was in those boxes on the pavement, waiting for some guy to come and pick it up. It wasn’t much stuff. After a while, the adults began to get nervous and upset. He was late and they weren’t sure if he was coming, but finally he came. He seemed nice enough. He picked up the stuff and put it in his car and we drove a long way to a big white house.

The columns on this house were huge. When we drove up, that’s all I could think about. Gigantic carved white columns perfectly supported the eaves all the way around the outside of the house. The columns were so white that it looked like they were just painted that morning, not a speck of dirt on them, they were almost shining.

I was afraid of those columns. They were too big for me, too perfect, just like the house. The idea of being there scared me, but I was relieved to find out I would instead live in a tiny house way in the back, far behind some trees. My house had only a small living room, two small bedrooms and one tiny bath. I liked our house much better. I felt comfortable there. It felt natural.

I spent most of my time either in the small house with the man who picked me up or running around outside in the dirt and dust. There's some trees and a small creek way in the back. I liked that, more space to run and nothing important to damage, so I was happier and felt more free than I had ever felt before.

The man was always quiet and calm, didn’t talk much, just enough to say what was necessary. I liked him. He made me feel relaxed. He didn’t talk much, but he never got angry either. Still, he seemed sad most of the time. He always looked bewildered, as if he was lost and couldn’t find himself inside that big cavern inside his head, so instead he would stare out in quiet confusion at the world.

When I turned 12, I finally got this assembly plant job. My job is to pack these projector machines into these boxes. Sometimes, as a break, I also get to sweep the dust off the floor with a broom. I was really lucky to get this important job at such a young age. That’s what everyone keeps telling me and I believe them. If I were to damage this projector right here in this box, I would probably be fired on the spot. Projectors cost money and my life is not worth more than a projector. I have to be really careful and think about what I am doing at all times. I can’t run around all the time without thinking like I used to.

The other day, me and the man were in our living room. He was sitting in the chair reading a newspaper when a lady came in with a message. I think she was one of the other women who work around here. I am sure I saw her before a few times. She poked her head in the door and told the man that some woman had gotten on the train and left for someplace far away and probably would not be coming back. The man seemed more confused than ever by this news. I am not sure, but I think the woman on the train was my mother. At least that’s the impression I got.

After receiving the news, the man got up from his paper and began to do the dishes. In the process, he accidentally tipped over a can of cayenne pepper from off the window sill and it spilled all over the kitchen counter. He kept trying to scoop up the powder with his big hands and pour it back into the container, but the opening to the container was small and his hands were big. And they were quaking. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the pepper back into the can. Maybe his life is not worth 2 cents either.

What To Do?

It's night and I am outside, leaning up against this car in my expensive blue jeans, waiting for my parents to come out of the store. The store is bustling and dozens of people are pushing their way out of the double doors every minute. I look at them and they all seem so 'together' so happy and without a care. I envy them. None of them are like me.

No one would ever suspect that not long ago, I allowed myself to get raped and that it happened repeatedly. They would think I was better than that. They would believe I should have known what to do, a girl like me who is smart, strong, and pretty with a sassy attitude.

I imagine telling my parents what happened when they come out of the store. I imagine the shock and disgust that would show on their faces as they stood in front of those double doors with so many people streaming by, the disappointment they would feel that I had not lived up to their standards. It would ruin their organized little world. They would be irritated and embarrassed that it might get out and unsure how to deal with this new shock. The look on their faces alone would be devastating to me. I decided that as much as this secret writhed within me and consumed my whole world, I would not tell them. It would be easier that way.