back to insomnia

Last night I went out with some old friends. Many of them were D.C. friends, some of whom were in town for a couple of days, and others who had given up there and relocated. After we got past the banalities of floor votes, burnt down bars, hawks, doves, Senatorial peccadilloes, and who's staffing who, we mellowed into a low key banter, a dark dive bar, silly jokes and invented dance moves. I went home late.

And woke up at 2:30 in the morning. I was not at all drowsy, feeling the onset of the insomnia I thought I had conquered a couple months ago. Instead of worrying, obsessing on all of the things I might not get down without at least a few hours of rest, I decided to just relax, and use this one productively. I did some low-key work, emailed old friends, drew up an outline for an article I will write someday. After a couple hours of this, my neighbor and friend, Hillary, came out on her porch. She was surprised to see me sitting on mine with my laptop. After a squint-eyed good morning, she said, "Are you up for the eclipse."
She pointed at the moon.
It was pretty nice looking, like someone had dripped caramel all over it. It felt warmer that way.
Hillary went back to bed. Eventually so did I. Today I've been irritable and easily distracted. I've wasted a fair amount of the work day. But that moon was pretty nice looking.

sleeping, pills

In the wake of emotional turmoil, physical pain, and my poor living habits, I've had more than enough insomnia recently. I’ve decided to resort to sleep aids in an attempt to resolve the my sleeplessness. Unwilling to deal with doctors and prescriptions, my winning self-prescribed combination has become alcohol and Tylenol PM. Yesterday, I had a visit from an ex-girlfriend, Carrie, who I once believed I would marry. She hurt me grievously last fall.

The visit was short and painful, involving an exchange of possessions and a few quick words. Her cousin waited outside in in the car, and she handed me a letter, calling it a “peace offering.” Reading the tritisms and platitudes that were all she could muster, reading the “I hope things work out for you,” and the “Someday I would like to salvage our friendship,” brought back all of the inconsiderate injuries she’d inflicted on me.

I went out to dinner with friends. I spent most of it staring at the lighting fixtures. Felix told me he was worried about me. I blushed.

I bought a bottle of champagne, went home, and drank it from a mug while watching an awful British movie. I gulped the drink, tried to interpret the cockney accents, and fumed. I took two Tylenol PM and turned on "Meet the Press" to disctract me. It worked. I woke up thirteen hours later feeling dry-mouthed and lightheaded. I was dizzy with grogginess when I woke up. I know enough about my body’s reaction to alcohol to know that the Tylenol was responsible for most of my lethargy. That stuff should be prescription-only, but I’ not complaining.

yo-yo

If I had any illusions that going to Albertine’s party would be good for me peace of mind, they are now dispelled. The party was fantastic. I felt that I received special attention from her. We had inside jokes and she would tell stories about me to her friends, like a proud girlfriend should I guess that was the tough part. I looked good. I was funny. I was intelligent. We had rapport. I felt like she wanted me (but I’ve felt this before). Then, at the end of the night, while the other lat guest was in the bathroom, I said,
“So. . .I’ll see you . . .sometime.”
She said, “Absolutely,” with the kind of surety that made me feel like she wanted to, like she wanted to be with me, like her ex-boyfriend was beginning to decrease, and I was experiencing a corresponding increase.
I rode home with that “absolutely” in my mind. I couldn’t sleep on Saturday night because of that word. Instead I went back through the night, replaying jokes, looks, glances, the movement of people through the room, her tendency to remain close to me. I tried not to make any conjecture. I tried not to embellish.
Since then I’ve been waiting, a little anxiously, for something from her, a small sign that I would see her again soon. It’s only been thirty-six hours. I have no patience. Today is her real birthday, so I sent her a short email. No plans, no questions, just “Happy actual birthday. Celebrate with some dark chocolate.” I am terrified of coming on too strong. At the same time, I need an answer, a reply. Until then, I am incapacitated.

insomnia

Last night I couldn’t sleep because of the stifled concerns susurrating across my bedroom, like buzzing flies or the sound of hard sleet on thin windowpane. I had some wonderful, tortured insomnia. After laying in bed for hours, uncomfortable to the point where sleep was no longer worth attaining, I thought about getting up for work, housecleaning, fucking. . .options for how to divert myself were considered and rejected (one was desirable but impossible, the other two did not seem distracting enough). i decided to go outside. I put on some pants and a fleece.

I walked downstairs and out the door. I wondered if my roommate would hear me leave. The air was cool. It was 3:03 A.M. I unlocked my bicycle and rode it around town. My eyes hurt.

The first bus to the Denver airport leaves at 3:20, and spring break
starts tomorrow, so many of the bus stops were filled with undergraduates
and their baggage. The only other people I saw were the late night drunks
and the too-young looking hook-ups swerving their way home. They all had better things to do than I did. They were going places with family and friends. They were going to have sex or cuddle or sleep it off. Wonderful. I stared at them. I was jealous. I thought about riding up the hill and waiting the three hours until dawn. Wouldn’t that be romantic? It seemed like too much work. I thought about bicycling by Albertine's house, just to feel close to her. I imagined the awkward conversation that would ensue if by I ran into her through some bizarre happenstance, what I could tell her to explain away my presence in her remote neighborhood at four in the morning.
At four in the morning, everything seems ill-advised. I stood straddling the top bar of my bike. I was crippled by indecision. There were no desirable alternatives. The empty town was lonelier than my bedroom. I went home. I made a quesadilla. I went to sleep. Going home felt incomplete. Going to sleep was nice, for a while. The quesadilla could have been better.