Book Of Roses

Insomnia

I miss being able to sleep eight full hours every night. The refreshing feeling you get when you wake up and pop your back muscles.

I miss having dreams of wild adventure. I used to wake up eager to write all of it down so I would never forget it.

I miss the relationship I had with my bed and stuffies. A silent promise to protect me from nightmares and help me sleep through the night.

It’s not the same now. I’m lucky if I get more than five hours of sleep.

My bed seems to switch their mind about helping me or making me toss and turn the whole night.

My stuffies have grown lazy with their job, either coming to work late or not coming at all.

Even the prescribed medicine to force slumber onto my body is malfunctioning.

Every night is the same routine.
Take off my rings and hair ties.
Lotion myself down.
Put my glasses next to my bed.
Lay flat on my back.
Stare at the ceiling.
Listen to the building breathing.
Close my eyes.
And then . . . Nothing.

Nothing happens.

I try to lay on my side, pressing my back against the cool wall. It makes me shiver with comfort, but them I settle.

And again, nothing happens.

I start to overthink about my surroundings.

Sure I had a small light illumination most of the room, but what about the darkness behind the doorway?

The sudden creaks and groans of the building seem deafening, and I’m scared stiff.
I can’t move.
And even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t.

If I move, it’s over. Something will hear me, and it will come charging from the doorway. Minutes go by of my petrified stare at the darkness.

Then I hear footsteps.

They shuffle closer, and closer.

My door opens.

I breathe a small sigh of relief. It was a nurse doing her rounds.

But then the door closes, and the cycle starts all over again.