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.