2009 & 2012 & 2017
 dream journal & sleep playlist
"Talia. Talia. You're asleep, wake up."

Fuck.

You knew this was going to happen eventually. You even warned him this was going to happen eventually, when he finally asked what it was that made you slip out of bed in the middle of the night like he was some regrettable one night stand and not the guy you've been dating for almost two years now. You know, the same guy who patiently waited for over half of that for you to even be comfortable enough to sleep with him?

Figuratively, at least. You haven't been getting much actual sleep since you started staying over.

"I told you," you mutter, embarrassed, tucking your forehead against his chest and hiding your face. It's a juvenile move, an 'I can't see you, you can't see me' reflex, and thinking about what a child you are makes you feel even more ridiculous, to the point where all you can do is laugh - a short, hysteric hiccup of noise muffled in his shirt. "I knew this was going to happen."

You have been here before, and you know what comes next. You don't have bad taste in men - on the contrary, you still respect and even like most of the guys you've dated - but there is a tendency toward a trait shared by nearly every single one of them, and that is their need to explain, and that is always the first step along the road to ruin, that insistence that it's going to be fine because you can be fixed, that they get it, they fucking googled it, they have the answer. It's an extension of your anxiety, it's intimacy problems, it's something about what you're eating, are you sure there's absolutely no chance you weren't molested as a child and have just been repressing it all these years?

You don't feel broken. You don't need to be fixed. You just want to sleep in your own bed, alone, not having to answer anyone's questions you don't have answers for about why you are the weird way you are, and to reconvene in the morning for banana pancakes and coffee.

"It's okay," he says, and he says it like he means it; still, you wait for him to say more, to ruin it. He slides an arm around your waist and gently pulls you closer. "I'm here, okay? I've got you."

Then, there is silence. This is new. This is nice.

"Do you remember what it was about?" he asks after a few minutes, half comforting, half curiosity. You'd tell him if you did, but you never do. You never remember anything except the feeling of dread pressing down on your chest before you wake up, the shout that jolts you out of bed, the cold sweat that makes your hair stick to the back of your neck. You almost wish you could remember, because at least then you could try to make some sense of it, but something tells you that this could be the worse option. If you remember, you might not be able to forget. You shake your head and he accepts it with a nod.

It's 3:06 AM. You've already embarrassed yourself, the worst thing that could happen is that you might do it again, and even then at least the initial shock will have already worn off. So, resisting the instinct to flee, you instead cautiously admit, "I elbowed a guy in the face once," as you position his arms over yours to make a repeat of such a situation at least slightly less likely. "It was an accident, obviously, but. You're in the danger zone. So I warned you."

"Danger Zone," he sings under his breath, and you finally feel the muscles in your jaw unclench and allow yourself to laugh because he's an idiot, and you're in love, and you're not alone, and maybe that's going to be okay after all.
"I'm awake. I'm awake I'm awake I'm awake."

Fuck.

Humid summer nights where the air feels heavy enough to swallow you whole also manage to elevate everything they touch. Your room somehow seems smaller, the shadows darker, your limbs impossibly heavy, the normal white noise of your ceiling fan running now a distracting clattering of sound. You can feel your shirt stuck to your skin, see your sheets discarded on the side of the bed, hear yourself repeating I'm awake I'm awake I'm awake. What you can't do is move.

You watch the second hand on your wall clock tick from 5:20 to 5:21 for what feels like a day, and approximately a century later you're able to sit up. You fold your legs up underneath you like you did in grade school, criss-cross applesauce. You breathe in as deeply as you can. You push down the feeling of uneasiness in your gut. You focus on watching the sun rise.

It's been a few months since you started waking up alone again and where the alternative used to be what terrified you, you still haven't readjusted yet to this feeling of complete, consistent aloneness. No one is telling you you're going to be okay, and while you can remind yourself that you're awake, that you're not in the pit, "I'm okay" feels like a lie coming from your own mouth. The thought of this makes you feel unbearably dramatic and your apparent desperation for the validation of others pathetic, and in accordingly unbearably dramatic, pathetic fashion, you allow yourself to flop back onto the mattress.

What you think you want never ends up being what you wanted.
"And how have you been sleeping lately?"

Fuck. Come on.

"I'm not. Much. To be honest." You shift in your chair, untie and retie your shoelaces. Without fail, doctor offices leave you dying for a distraction. You try to schedule these things to take place over the phone when you can; at least then you can fidget freely, or in a worst case scenario, pretend your battery went dead. "I mean, I want to, obviously, but it's like I can only sleep when I'm not trying to. In meetings and hanging out with friends or just trying to get through a movie or whatever. And I snore, because of course I do, so that's embarrassing. But I get in bed and close my eyes and all I can think about is how I can't sleep. When I can sleep, it's usually only for a couple of hours, and then... well, I wake up. Like we talked about."

"The night terrors," Dr. Peters gently prompts you, and you hate her for it.

"Yeah, that. Are they really terrors if I can't remember them? Sorry. I just. Do you think there's anything I can take for it?"

Dr. Peters is a smart, reasonable woman. You've been through so many doctors trying to find the right one; someone who pushes but doesn't pry, who'll get you what you need but isn't looking to turn you into a drug-addled pod person, either. She's been cautious about adding heavy prescriptions to your arsenal, so you really shouldn't be surprised by what she says next.

"I'd like to have you try out melatonin first." You don't bother trying to stifle your sigh and she notices and is quick to amend, "I know, but it's not an herb or a supplement, it's a hormone. And it's not magic. I'm going to need you to try to regulate your sleep cycle on your own - at least attempt to shut down and wake up at the same time every day. No cell phones in the bedroom, no devices that put out a blue light, caffeine stops six hours before bedtime, everything we've talked about before."

"I heard that stuff can give you nightmares, isn't that going to just exacerbate my... existing conditions?" You're a smart, reasonable woman too. Kind of. Not exactly like a doctor, but you try to be. Reasonable, that is. You've never tried to be a doctor, at least not since you were six, and even then you're pretty sure you weren't that great at it. The point here is you've done your research.

"Commercial doses of melatonin can be three to ten times what you actually need, that's why there are side effects. Let's make a deal? I'll work up the correct dosage for you and get it to your place by tomorrow evening. Try it, keep a record of how you react to it, come see me again in two weeks. If it's not what you're looking for, we'll talk alternatives."

"Okay."