As a child, I could sleep forever. In my teen years, I remember my parents checking to make sure I was breathing. As I entered my 20's, I'd party all night, work all day and sleep, literally all weekend. This was always the case, until one day. My mother had just had surgery and the doctor very bluntly pulled my father and I aside and said "she has six months to live." From that day on, I have become an insomniac.
When my mother was reaching her final days, there were time when she would call out and I would jump out of bed, only to find she hadn't called out at all. Even in drunken stupors, I would rise quickly at the hint of a call. I will never forget her final night. I had just fallen asleep and my father knocked on my door and told me that she was breathing very quickly. We stared at her and we knew it was the last night. About an hour later, another knock and she was gone.
The following day, we made the arrangements and it was done. There was no wake, no funeral. She didn't want that. We had her last hurrah two weeks previous. That night, I lay in bed and thought about her life. I was overcome with a feeling of peace and serenity. I drifted off. I awoke fourteen hours later. Immediately a feeling of guilt overcame me. I walked out on that sunny July Saturday afternoon and saw my father drinking coffee and eating breakfast. Without hesitation, he smiled and confirmed that he too had just woken up. The burden of caring for our dying mother and wife had taken its toll and we finally had some bit of solace. I still felt guilt.
Since that day, I have had days of double digit sleep hours, but they are usually aided by my friends Jameson, Jagermeister and Stoli. Rarely are there other times when I sleep more than four or five hours. Last weekend was an "aided" sleep weekend. It was a long weekend at that. When I awoke Monday at around 3:30am, after six hours of blackout sleep, I realized I had done something wrong. I knew not the extent, but knew it was bad. I knew I had to make amends.
And so it began. My week of sobriety, of apologies and of getting my life back into order. There is no order though. I've taken the necessary steps, but parts are missing. I don't have the person I care about. I don't automatically have financial security. I don't have a new life. Things are the same, they are just clearer. Clearer, doesn't mean better, because there is a healing process. That healing process contains hours upon hours of reflection. It's consisted of realizing who I've let down and who I've offended. It is remembering making someone breakfast in bed and laying on a couch laughing on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's also consisted of trying to piece together where everything went wrong. Trying to remember what was said and to whom. It's reliving the awful things I've done over the past few weeks, months, years. All this becomes clearer as I lay in bed, lights off, alone in the darkness that is my life.
The sun is rising and poking it's rays through my window as we speak. Absent are the three little birds, upon my window. The familiar hum of my air conditioner is the only sound I hear. Twenty hours of sleep in the last 127 hours. That amount, 127 hours, like the movie. A metaphor for my life. Trapped, crushed beneath the weight of my mistakes. Hoping that someone will hear my cries. Someone will come to my rescue. Someone will take care of me. Then, maybe then, I will sleep.
When my mother was reaching her final days, there were time when she would call out and I would jump out of bed, only to find she hadn't called out at all. Even in drunken stupors, I would rise quickly at the hint of a call. I will never forget her final night. I had just fallen asleep and my father knocked on my door and told me that she was breathing very quickly. We stared at her and we knew it was the last night. About an hour later, another knock and she was gone.
The following day, we made the arrangements and it was done. There was no wake, no funeral. She didn't want that. We had her last hurrah two weeks previous. That night, I lay in bed and thought about her life. I was overcome with a feeling of peace and serenity. I drifted off. I awoke fourteen hours later. Immediately a feeling of guilt overcame me. I walked out on that sunny July Saturday afternoon and saw my father drinking coffee and eating breakfast. Without hesitation, he smiled and confirmed that he too had just woken up. The burden of caring for our dying mother and wife had taken its toll and we finally had some bit of solace. I still felt guilt.
Since that day, I have had days of double digit sleep hours, but they are usually aided by my friends Jameson, Jagermeister and Stoli. Rarely are there other times when I sleep more than four or five hours. Last weekend was an "aided" sleep weekend. It was a long weekend at that. When I awoke Monday at around 3:30am, after six hours of blackout sleep, I realized I had done something wrong. I knew not the extent, but knew it was bad. I knew I had to make amends.
And so it began. My week of sobriety, of apologies and of getting my life back into order. There is no order though. I've taken the necessary steps, but parts are missing. I don't have the person I care about. I don't automatically have financial security. I don't have a new life. Things are the same, they are just clearer. Clearer, doesn't mean better, because there is a healing process. That healing process contains hours upon hours of reflection. It's consisted of realizing who I've let down and who I've offended. It is remembering making someone breakfast in bed and laying on a couch laughing on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's also consisted of trying to piece together where everything went wrong. Trying to remember what was said and to whom. It's reliving the awful things I've done over the past few weeks, months, years. All this becomes clearer as I lay in bed, lights off, alone in the darkness that is my life.
The sun is rising and poking it's rays through my window as we speak. Absent are the three little birds, upon my window. The familiar hum of my air conditioner is the only sound I hear. Twenty hours of sleep in the last 127 hours. That amount, 127 hours, like the movie. A metaphor for my life. Trapped, crushed beneath the weight of my mistakes. Hoping that someone will hear my cries. Someone will come to my rescue. Someone will take care of me. Then, maybe then, I will sleep.
Powerful stuff, Hop. This really hit me. Let me know if there's anything I can do/help with.
ReplyDelete- Walter.