The summer between second and third grade, I stopped sleeping. Well, not entirely. I'd go to bed at some normal hour for an eight year old, but later—usually around two, when the entire house was soundly asleep—I'd wake up.
At first, I'd try and deny it. I'd roll back over, close my eyes and come up with different methods of trying to make my body sleep. I'd lay in one position, refusing to let myself move, gradually imaging my body becoming so heavy it could not move. Heavy legs, heavy stomach, heavy shoulders, heavy head. Heavy eyes. Do not move. Stay here. Sleep.
That method, hypnotic as it may sound, has never worked for me—then, or now.
I'd try to match my breathing to the pace of the others. The entire house seemed to sleep in the same breathing patterns—set, I suppose, by my father, whose inhaling and exhaling I could hear clearly in our small house. Sometimes this works, but mostly, it serves to remind me that everyone else is very much asleep and I am very much awake.
Eventually, I'd admit defeat. I'd get up from bed; wander around the upstairs (I was terrified of being alone downstairs at night, which is a little strange because even as a kid, I relished time alone—but I suppose some things are a little too lonely). I'd watch people sleep, hate them for sleeping. I'd whisper to see if, maybe, someone else was awake too. And when nobody would answer, I'd throw myself onto my bed again, frustrated to tears. And maybe, eventually, I'd fall back asleep before the sun came up.
I'm not sure quite what sparked my summer insomnia—it ended with the start of the school year, fortunately, and therefore never really became an issue. I think maybe it was a small child's fears of war—this was during that whole Gulf War episode—but I'm not really sure. Now looking back twelve years later, it strikes me as terribly sad that someone so small would be aware of and internalize events like that. But so it was.
It still crops up every now and again—the insomnia, that is. It usually only lasts a few weeks, but I recognize the old patterns—the tossing and turning, the feigned sleep, the softly whispered "Hey, you awake?"—and the empty feeling that comes when it's met with no reply. Sheets get drenched in sweat, sighs are heavy, but very different from yawns. Because in the moment, anyway, I'm not tired.
I'm really tempted to wake sleeping people up when I can't sleep. I don't like being alone like that, and I think a lot of times if someone would just talk to me for a little while, I might be able to sleep. But I can't talk about things, and I can't bring myself to disturb sleeping people (at least not directly. I'm sure all my tossing, turning and sighing takes its toll).
So I sit up in bed. I curl up by the window, feel the breeze on my face if there is one, and watch for cars of people passing by below. At least (I tell myself) I am not entirely alone in this being awake.
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Replies: 7
I blame you. lol. After reading this I went to bed, it was around 9 or so I had believed. I set my clock, fumbled around a big, it's a pain to set that clock. I tried to sleep. The clock said 11:42. Crap! I thought it was like 9! And then... 12:22 and onto 1:46.... until my alarm was going off at 3:30 (yes thats right I set it to 3:30... they're coming to get up at 4:0) to go to the airport). So I grumble about not getting to sleep AT ALL and get dressed, go to wake up Jonathan... And his clock says 1:36. Oh no... Did I? was it my clock or his? I go downstairs and the kitchen clock says... 1:36. Fuck. I went back uptsairs and crawled into bed with my clothes on and didn't pull the sheets up- it was really hot anyway. Less than two hours later my brothers wakes me up. Yes wakes me up, meaning I finally did fall asleep. Less than two hours... but still. I blame this new-found insomnia on you for writing this and making me think about it.
Posted by steph @ 04/18/2002 03:36 AM EST
Aw, Stephy! :( Now I feel bad. I hope you sleep in Florida...
Posted by Caroline @ 04/18/2002 08:16 AM EST
some of us are always awake somewhere, Caro. when i was eight or nine or ten I used to wake up in the midnight humidity of new england july, sometimes, and stare out the window for an hour or two. it was too hot to fall back asleep. i'd carefully roll up the window shade (i slept on the top bunk), put my chin on the windowsill and stare out at the streetlamp on the corner. i'd wait for cars to pass by, until the cranberry bog peepers lulled me back to sleep. i miss that sound, and i miss plymouth. it's remarkable, how many hours i've spent lying awake in bed, listening to singing frogs.
Posted by ryan @ 04/19/2002 04:33 AM EST
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAROLINE!
Posted by - @ 04/23/2002 01:18 PM EST
happy birthday!
Posted by melinda @ 04/23/2002 02:50 PM EST
Happy Birthday
Posted by John @ 04/24/2002 12:00 AM EST
you write amazingly, it's weird that such a trivial subject ca be portrayed so evokingly. that goes for all your entries. nice.
Posted by alasdair @ 05/10/2002 12:31 PM EST