I have developed such a need/hate relationship with sleep. I am desperately tired most of the time, but dread falling asleep because I actually do fear I'll die. You'd think I'm just being dramatic, but the possibility (hell, probability?, no) is there, I'm told and I believe. One day I will go to sleep and not wake up.
Oh the monster in the box was supposed to save me, but I've developed such an aversion to it that I might as well rename it the insomnia machine. All my life I've had to tie back my hair to sleep because the feel of it on my face or neck annoyed me when I lay down. Now I'm supposed to be able to get to sleep with a mass of rubber wrapped around my face. I tried. I really did, but I'm finally admitting I am unable to sleep with the only thing that makes sleeping safe for me.
So I move from site to site each time I simply must rest. I try sleeping on my side in the bed, which sometimes works, and sometimes doesn't, as evidenced by the too too familiar hypoxic waking headaches (untouchable by any pain reliever I've tried). I try sleeping in the recliner, which works more often but not consistently. And no matter where I finally collapse and fall asleep, I know I'll be awake in three hours, four at the most, awakened from my light sleep by a car on the road or the very noisy neighbors or one Lucy's middle-night rampages or an episode of non-breathing that awakens me and leaves me shaken in aching head and fear.
But that is just the usual background noise in my mind this evening, midsummer just a few hours past the late falling of the sun. And it's not been a bad day, this Thursday the day before Independence Day, the beginning of a three day week-end, three lovely days of notwork, small smile and silent laugh at the very thought of it.
I am so tired, I'll surrender the fight now. Sleep - can't live without it, might not live with it - but I'm just too tired.
I go through the recliner sleep rituals. The usual teeth brushing, evening meds, and soft cotton jammies. The light throw for cover and the thick old comforter doubled up and laid upon the floor below the foot of the recliner that I sit in and push back only the one click, rolling a soft towel behind my neck to keep my head erect for this strange night journey that's become so familiar to me. I turn on the music, soft pianowork, and wait in the dark.
Impossible for me to sleep though, even with the rituals duly performed, because my mind is so fixated on sleep and so busy trying not to think of death. I know sleep won't come, no matter how I need it, unless I can distract myself, somehow.
Minutes pass in the mostly dark before I feel the soft impact of old lady cat landing lightly on my raised legs. Tessa heard the music from that corner of the house and came, crossing the wood floors silently, travelling in her own darkness, finding the cushy comforter on the floor that will soften her landing when she finishes her nightly work and leaps back down to the floor. She moves up my legs to my lap, and I cross my arms so she can climb up and get comfortable, folding her legs neatly between her body and my chest, her delicate little apple shaped head finding my shoulder, her perky pointy ears an inch from mine.
I stroke her infinite fluffiness, so soft and fine, so impossible for my fingers to ignore, I rub her skinny shoulders and feel the purr begin. Full body strokes, slow and rhythmic, her rumble rises as I finally find the ever itchy rump spot and begin to scratch softly. Sigh. Sweet cat, soft dear old lady cat. Whatever would I do without her.
A few minutes later, the other county is heard from. With heavy thud on my shins, Lucy announces her entrance into tonight's community nest. She walks a circlet thrice on my legs as though she can stomp them into a proper rounded nest before she finally gives up and curls into a ball on the long bones of my legs, her nose pointed in my direction, to keep an eye on me, to make certain neither of my grabby hands tries to sneak up on her and, heaven forfend, embrace her too as I have embraced that hideously domesticated fluffy thing purring away so shamelessly. For Lucy is a wild thing and only using me for warmth, yes, that's it, she's only sleeping on my lumpy legs because they're warm, not because she has any affection for me at all, not that.
In the moonlight I can see Lucy's little white blaze running between her glinting watchful eyes. She is staring so intently I can read her mind, well, almost.
It's just one word, really -
"Pussy-whipped."
And, for the life of me, I have no idea which of us she's judging.
Loading comments...