Arielle Baer

I haven’t slept in days.

No, that’s too much of an exaggeration. I’ve had moments of rest here and there during the night. Rest, ha. What’s so restful about this sleep imposter? Every night it’s exactly the same: A long, impatient wait as I gradually pass out into a light, troubled doze that is perfectly and punctually interrupted every hour on the hour. For someone with such a horrible inner clock during the daytime, it seems to work surprisingly well while I’m unconscious.

I lay my head down on the pillow waiting for Hypnos, God of Sleep, to come and take me away. Do something. Anything! But I just lay there with eyes wide open. Often sleeps eludes me to the point that my eyes don’t even understand that they should be shut. I try to close one. Then the other. I slowly count myself into slumber. One…two…three…It’s torturous to keep them closed for so long. They spring open and here we are back at stage one.

Is it any coincidence that Death is the half-brother of Sleep? Maybe Torment is their second-cousin.

It’s almost funny. Growing up I was taught in Yeshiva that when we sleep at night god takes our soul from us, so we are for the most part dead for this portion of the day. Who knew death could be so active? This is why we have to say Modah Ani (“I am praising”) every morning before we get out of bed, to thank god for giving us back our souls and allowing us to wake up. We also wash our hands and say Netilat Yadaim because it is as if we have spent the night with a dead body, which makes us tamei (impure).

I wish this part was an exaggeration.

Death, Sleep’s half-brother. Is it any wonder I’m so scared of it?

Ok eyes, you want to be open? Then let’s stay open. Let’s watch the shadows that play all night long on the white walls of my apartment. Let’s imagine what they could be, instead of what they are. Let’s listen to creaking of the floor boards above me. Or did that one come from my hallway? In an old building like this, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, isn’t it? Let’s try to peer through the darkness as we create monsters out of mole hills, so to speak. They hide themselves in your peripheral, only chancing to move once we’ve looked away. Let’s sit up to get a better look.

Twenty-four years old and still scared of the dark.

My eyes can’t play tricks on me if they’re closed, I tell myself every night. I lay back down; waiting patiently for sleep, but it only comes in swells. That’s not a shallow attempt at being poetic. I can literally feel the waves of sleep slide over my body at night. You even could say that it has the distinct feeling of being dipped into the ocean on a warm summer’s day. But I won’t.

The waves start at the tips of my toes, slowly making its way up and over my calves, my knees, to my thighs. Some night’s are stronger than others. If I’m lucky it is quick, like a flash flood if we’re keeping with the water metaphors. The wave is over me before I have time to take a last gasp of air and I’m under. If that night’s is a particularly strong wave, I’m suddenly struck with the sensation of lifting. Then my legs will shudder. I’ve seen commercials for restless leg syndrome. Does everything have to be a syndrome these days? The shudder always wakes me up from this sad crack at sleep; I can feel the wave dropping me. But I always wake up before I hit the bottom.

And so we start again; toes, calves, thighs, torso, fingers, arms, chest, head.

Eventually sleep will come, but in a twisted form. I’m asleep but very aware. Unconscious consciousness. My body may be motionless but my mind is as active as ever. My brain, still mostly awake, forces me to take into account every gentle sound that surrounds my bed. It takes these interruptions and incorporates them into the stream of nightmares I am barraged with nightly.

I am Morpheus’ plaything.

Each one more heinous than the next. It is only when we sleep that we realize how much we don’t deal with during the day. Each night is like our own personal therapy session. Unfortunately mine is led by Tim Burton, M.D. My dreams can be as theatrical and preposterous as Burton’s storylines. They can also be as beautiful. I am amazed at the terrifying details my mind is able to create in such a short period of time. It is during these moments I am grateful for how lightly I sleep. A loud raindrop on my air conditioner can bring me back into consciousness. Pull me back into a world of suffocating darkness somewhere between dream and reality.

Every night dims the line a little more.