When insomnia doesn’t nag me into staying awake, I often fall helplessly into hostile slumber. It generally starts off innocent. I’ll be in a musical world, poetry challenge or Netflix binge. I am completely relaxed. Unplugged. Unconscious. Self-care at maybe 86%. The scene always shifts then and becomes harsh, angst-filled and violent. No, it’s not because I watch these things before bed, because I don’t. The only thing I do before bed is read fluffy fanfic or stare at the ceiling, so if I were having sex dreams, I’d understand.
I generally wake up tired, out of breath and with my body jerking up instantly. I shoot up from my pillow eyes already open like a deer caught in headlights. It’s unnerving. An unsettling pit drilling away in my stomach leaving me hollow and unsatisfied, for my dream life doesn’t live up to the hype. I’m not scared of the visions that visit me at night anymore. I am just tired after and would rather not be.
Normally it’s a work thing. I think subconsciously my truth regarding feelings towards my job come to life when I sleep. My disdain reveals itself in crashed cars, torn out hair, battered faces—bloody lips, black and blue eyes and cut cheeks— I’m often running or fighting. Sometimes I’ll be jumping, skidding and sliding.
Resting via sleeping these days is a full-body workout. I wonder how many calories I’ve lost to this Morpheus induced regime. Muscles ache when I wake, limbs are sore and the sweat that slithers from my brow is something I hate to endure.
Why can’t sleep just love me?
Why are my dreams so high-energy?
If the dream-catcher catches what I see in my sleep would I be arrested for assault and battery?
Eleven down, forty-one to go…