I have always loved to sleep. I distinctly remember in college staring longingly at my bed, and the utter bliss of crawling under the covers, snuggling in and knowing I wouldn't need to be conscious for at least the next 6 hours. Even now, I love crawling into my soft cozy bed and burrowing into the covers, getting everything just right, most times with my feet sticking out of the blankets.
The difference now is that most nights when I close my eyes to welcome oblivion (or the insane work nightmares I have been having the past few months - more on that later), the only thing I see is Teddy's face as he was the morning we found him. I call it his dead face. I will spare you the details, but it was the most horrifying experience of my life, and the worst possible sight I could ever see. A couple months ago, my therapist and I talked about it at length, and she suggested I try some "mindfulness." That looks me opening my eyes in my dark ass bedroom, concentrating on anything I can see, hear, or feel. Okay, I hear Paul (my husband)'s breathing. Okay, I can see the outline of the bookshelf next to the bed. Okay, I feel my fluffy down comforter. Oh god, it's so hot in here. Then I just lay there with my eyes open, still seeing poor Teddy, more clearly as the seconds tick by.
Last night it happened again. I went to bed when Paul did because I was exhausted from a day of crying non-stop. I settled in and read a light-hearted book (Sona Movsesian's delightful memoir about working as Conan O'Brien's assistant) until I was sleepy enough to turn off the light. Then it happened. Heart pounding in my ears, a high pitched buzzing sound getting louder. This weird warmth-tingle spreading down my arms to my torso. I hear Paul's voice so clearly, just as it was that morning, and my responding cries. I lay there, frozen, unable to blink or move or stop these thoughts. This reinaction happening inside my brain without my permission.
Another possible solution is to picture him living and breathing, or my husband suggested calling up the memory of him from the funeral home. Still dead, but looking like he is sleeping. The problem with this for me, is that I don't just get the image back. I get the texture of his forehead, the way the one time I tried to touch his cheek it was so cold and solid. The way when I lay my hand on his beautiful belly, it felt stiff and wooden, like he was a wooden doll. This is equally awful for me.
So I literally jump out of bed, desperate to get away from my own brain, taking my head as if this will make the unbidden memories fly away. I go out into the living room, turn on the lamp to the dim setting, settle myself into my nook where I like to work on my cross stitch, and immediately turn on the TV to something that will drown out my thoughts. Last night it was "True Convictions" and "The Blacklist." This was at about 11pm, and about an hour later my friend from the west coast suggested I take a sleeping aid. What a novel idea! So I took one and waited. And waited. 2 cigarettes and a bunch of stitches later. I was finally able to trundle back to bed around 2am, falling into my oblivion.
At 5:21am exactly, my son Logan woke up and demanded to see his ipad. My husband woke up and tried to get him to go back to sleep, but Logan would have none of that. They started escalating each other until I clawed my way up through my sleep fog and suggested that Paul just let him have it so we could go back to sleep. Which I did promptly, leaving poor Paul to stay up to make sure Logan didn't burn the house down.
Rinse and repeat and this has basically been my life for the past 3 months. Unable to want to go to sleep most days, and then when I do, living through this PTSD nightmare. So I'm tired. All the time. Logan is home all day because it's Saturday, and luckily, he drowns out the silence of my thoughts so I can be in the moment with him, no matter how many times he demands to watch Blippi, or play hide-and-seek, or ask for sugary treats he knows he can't have...
Comments