I slept today. and when I say slept, I really mean SLEPT.
like 19 hours slept.
it seems to be the only thing my body wants to do anymore, that and eat ice cream cones. I can’t conceivably find a way to do both at the same time, so someone is always missing out.
really though. I’ve been on trazadone for 6 months now and can’t say it’s doing anything good or bad for me. my sleep is still a mess. 2 hours here, 6 hours there, 18 hours, 57 minutes. it’s all just random. my entire life I’ve had this same sort of luck with the  blissful slumber. I can remember being 6 years old and sneaking out of my room into the basement rumpus room to watch amazing discoveries and old re runs of classic movies. I fell in love with Marylin when I was 6. gentleman prefer blondes.
Audry stole my heart from her though. in my fair lady. those big eyes and partial smiles. she always had this secret air about her that made me want to crawl inside of her and go to sleep. the old 70’s couch my grandparents gave us, across from the huge box tv with no remote, me with an old crocheted blanket that smelled like the basement, and Audry. I’d fall asleep thinking I was on her lap, she was playing with my hair and stroking my cheek, humming me into dreamland.
of course I would be rudely awoken moments later when the commercials came on. because back then the volume balance from movies to commercials was all fucked up.
Scared that someone in the sleeping house would wake up and catch me, and I’d get in trouble, I’d scramble to the remote-less tv to turn the volume down as quickly as my childhood hands would let me. but the moment was ruined, regardless of the volume. I’d drag myself back upstairs to my room and spend the rest of the night staring out the window into the darkness, until the darkness turned to morning, and morning turned to another day of me being tired.
I never though that I used to be so scared. scared of the dark. or so scared of things that I can barely breath. where I dream anxiety attacks and wake myself up only to be shoved right back into that panic.
But I guess I’ve always been scared. in one form or another. even back then at 6, if I couldn’t sleep, if I couldn’t see the street, if I had to panic. If I had to be scared, I figured I should be crying. I used to think of the saddest things I could remember so I could cry. because I never seemed to cry at the right times. I felt I was training myself to be normal, so when my grandpa passed away, or when my dad left my mum, the tears would be real. born out of sadness. but the shame I carry that I never did cry properly makes me pause to remember those sad things. I guess it’s distraction. I guess it’s a lot of things.
I wish I could go back to being buried under that old crocheted blanket, sucking my thumb and imaging me and Audry Hepburn living happily ever after one a torn ugly couch. because at least then I was sure of how I felt.