Can't sleep.
Too much brain working, too many thoughts. About what? Nothing, as far as I can glean. I'm foggy and wander from one thing to the next. There is a pile of freshly washed diapers on the floor. The baby happily pulled them off the couch and I haven't gotten around to taking them upstairs yet. The cat is sitting on one of them. Strange little cat, waiting for me to go to bed. She never sleeps anywhere at night besides on my head. Has for years. Furry, purring, obnoxious, kneading away at my pillow.
My family is sleeping. I left them upstairs playing Angry Birds on the smartphone. They are dreaming while I am downstairs absently staring and channeling words through my tired fingers. Is it late? Not so bad, just before midnight, but such a long day it feels later. Fasting and blood drawn before I could finally eat, and I've been hungry ever since. I've been awake too long, and hungry for longer. I've never been as hungry has I have the last ten months, but still slowly the weight falls off and now my pants are falling off with it. I need to find my belts again, or at least my smaller pants.
There are toys everywhere down here in the basement. Drums and gear bugs and plushies and things that make noise. I am surrounded by drummers and my son is already showing aptitude for the musical arts. He beats drums, and taps at the xylophone with purpose. Perhaps it is just me. We took video of him last night, and he played something beautiful. Sleepy Time for Solo Vibraphone, composed by a ten-and-a-half month old boy, perceived a genius by his tired mother. Beautiful and haunting, you cannot be out of tune when you play the vibes and that is part of the reason I love mallet percussion.
I used to be a decent mallet player, but my myoclonus mostly stripped me of that talent. I twitch too much to be consistent. I still play, but as a perpetual amateur. I left the semi-professional group this season. Too much work and stress and all I had to practice on at home was a vibraphone. The spacing is different on the others. I can't play piano anymore either. My fingers are slow and I can't straighten all of them out. Damned nerves, damaged by years of self-abuse and a long-misdiagnosed mitochondrial defect.
I haven't slept much lately. I'm not as tired as I should be, but I am weary. I can't think straight. I try to nap, but just lay blankly and enjoy the warmth of my little boy cuddled next to me. I don't think he is the reason I can't sleep. He's big now, and I'm not afraid of crushing him anymore. My husband still is afraid. I hear noises and they keep me awake. I solve puzzles and math problems in my head. I've always done that. I've always swung between narcolepsy and insomnia. I exist on my own clock. I can dream without sleeping and sleep without dreaming because my REM stage is abnormal. I can dream while wide awake and aware that I am dreaming. I can sleep while conversing and remember everything I said.
My cat is looking at me with tired eyes. She taps me with a paw, begging me to stop typing and go to sleep. I want to, I really do, but my brain has not shut down yet. I sit, accomplishing nothing, nothing at all. I breathe, I blink, I type but my motions are meaningless and automatic. I want to sleep, I want to dream, but mostly I want to wake up feeling refreshed after a good night. That last dream has never happened to me before, and likely never will.
No comments:
Post a Comment