When I wake at two a.m. I think, “I’m a failure.” Then I start listing the reasons why. Two a.m. is not an hour for positive thoughts. I was warm and cozy in blissful unconsciousness and now abruptly awake. At least once during the night I have to pee, the price you pay for living past 70, but usually I fall right back to sleep.
Except when I don’t. This happens maybe thrice a month. I tell the eyes to close, but they prefer to dart around the room probing the shadows for intruders. Hear that? A creak in the hall floorboards. What could I hit him with when he gets here? This paperback book? I need to start keeping hardcovers on the bedside table, or maybe a hammer.
Back to the failures in my life: the failure to keep writing and publishing poetry, the failure to get a second book of translations published, the failure to make smart retirement decisions, to keep a healthy diet, to exercise four times a week. I look at the clock: 2:40 a.m.
Fairmount Cemetery Mausoleum
Phil is still and silent next to me, so he’s probably dead. I reach to touch him. He’s warm, starts to snore. I exhale deeply. At least that’s O.K. then. His snoring increases volume. I’ll never get back to sleep. I should get up, but we turn the heat down at night and it’s cold and I don’t want to get up, I want to be warm and asleep. Now I’m whining silently in my head.
The middle of the night is a time of negativity. People who’ve never seen me in the middle of the night think I’m a positive, happy person. But at 2:40 a.m. I brood on death. I mean, I’m 76: how many more years could I have?
I force my eyes closed and see the Facebook photo of a writer I translate with another translator and her caption: my wonderful English translator. I squirm around and adjust the covers. This mattress is new but tonight has rocks in it. Now, now, that won’t do, I chide myself. Good writers always have several translators. Translators are not competitive, right? You can’t get possessive about your authors. Anyway, I’ve never published a book of hers (another failure) and she’s a fine writer, deserves to be in translation. Maybe this woman will have better luck. The translator in the photo looks a lot younger than me. Now I’m depressed.
There’s a problem paragraph in the blog post I’m writing. I recall how the first sentence goes and begin revising it in my head. This is pointless, I tell myself, but I don’t listen. I revise the first two sentences four or five times, when suddenly I’m replaying a news story—in the last year, six children from Guatemala and El Salvador, aged two to sixteen, have died in our custody. In the ten years before this, no children died in custody. It makes my chest ache. Then I run through all the horrible things the current administration is doing to our land, our people, our allies, our democracy until my heart rate ramps up.
Phil’s snoring reaches electric saw level. I pat his shoulder gently and he quiets. He’s considerate, even in his sleep. I risk looking at the clock’s numbers, red as my eyes: 3:15. Our friend Jaeger says think of all the words you know that start with “a,” then go on to “b.” He says he never gets to “c” before falling asleep. A, an, agitate, ampersand, abound, action, analyze, aardvark, anguish…wait, should I be doing this in alphabetical order?
I never set family or career aside, never put writing first. Cleaned out my paper submission file recently—that’s all digital now—found five hand-written notes from editors saying, “not this, but please send us more.” I never did. No follow-through. Yesterday, I wrote nothing. I need to write every day. It was a financial mistake to retire when I did. After promising to only eat three a day, I gobbled up all those Valentine chocolates in two days and didn’t go to the gym either. Wait, I was thinking of words that begin with a, wasn’t I? Alienate, amble, amorphous…3:42 a.m.
In the sunny morning, after coffee, I can think of a dozen positive things about my life, but at 3:42 a.m. such data do not appear. It is as if they don’t exist. I turn onto my left side, give Phil a nudge so he’ll stop snoring again. B. Bee, be, babble, bare, bar, back—backlist, backbite, backslide, backfire—blame, belittle, bad…
Wonderful reverie! Thanks! My dad taught me to do an alphabet sleep aid as well, only his was a food item for every letter. He said he never got past “hamburger.” All I got was hungry, so I created variations for myself: titles of books; capitals of states and countries; names of rivers; authors’ names (different sets for first and last). I’ll have to try the Jaeger Variation. That’s a good one!
And sometimes it actually works. On this occasion, I think I did fall asleep before I reached “c.” I like your variations, will try some of them.
Mordantly funny, and I love that you put a mausoleum as your illustration! While your noisy husband is asleep, he is dreaming of frustrated actions, wandering lost in unknown lands, unfinished projects, etc. All the horrors we create for ourselves in the dead of night.
Rollover “Buzz” Sawyer, thanks for that “mordantly funny!”
And while I’m at it, Sue Kennedy Holbrook is unable to post here for some unknown technological reason, but I can quote what she said: Tried to comment on the site. Not sure it stuck. I could have written this. Especially checking my husband to see if he’s alive. The man lays down and sleeps! What if there’s a burglar in the kitchen? Somebody has to keep watch!
God, can I relate to this. My issues, however, center around falling asleep in the first place. I have been taking melatonin recently, about 30 minutes before I go to bed which seems to help a bit. Tried the slow breathing inhale 8 counts, exhale 8 counts, didn’t;t do anything but I’ll try the alphabet.
Deb, that’s my other trick, not being able to fall asleep in the first place. Melatonin did nothing for me. I have a rule I don’t always follow: if not asleep in an hour, get up and read.
Hey, Pat, glad it worked this time, and Kathleen, I like your variations. I’ve used rivers myself, and countries, and states and counties, and three syllable words beginning with each letter, and…Some variation usually works, but if I make it to z I usually give up, sometimes pull on slippers and robe to wander into the front room and stare at shadows while sitting up in the dark instead of lying in bed. Just the change in position seems to quiet the mind enough to finally invite sleep, but not always.
“This is pointless, I tell myself, but I don’t listen” just about captured it! Well done, Pat, sister insomniac. “S” is for Superb!
Thanks, Jenny-Lynn! This one got some of the best response in months, here and on FB. America, we have a sleep disorder problem.