Bed is the enemy. I never thought I would say that, but it’s now a truth in my life I wish I could avoid. I used to love sleeping, and long, lazy mornings in bed, but that was in the days before I remembered my assault.
Now, I battle paranoia, sensory hallucinations, skin-crawling body horror and the everpresent voices of the dark passenger, each and every night. Worse, I also have to contend with flashbacks and pain from my back injury, and of course, my unpleasant bedfellow, insomnia.
Usually, I take herbal sleeping pills to combat the insomnia, but I’m not at my house and I forgot to bring them. I talk to J when I’m lying in bed, so I can feel safe and reassured, but the WiFi in this house isn’t good, so I couldn’t. Already I’ve been dissociating, my insomnia is back without the benign sleepiness of my pills, and my skin is already crawling in horror.
It’s at times like these I use my memories of America and J to pull me through. I miss the reassuring weight of his arm slung protectively over my waist, his sleepy voice in my ear, the slow, steady thump of his precious heart. I miss hearing him tell me to go up to bed, and he would see me in the morning. I miss the slow, sleepy smile on his face when I used to come and wake him up in the morning.
Most of all, I miss him in general. I’ve been craving his hand in mine for weeks, and I wish he was here so I could wrap him close and lie there, protecting him and he protecting me, from both of our demons. Soon, he said to me last night, soon.
I want to feel safe and comfortable in bed again. I miss being able to feel sleepy without worrying about that shadow in the corner being my ex. I like how I was starting to feel when J was with me in America, and I want that feeling back so much.
Hurry up world, I miss my American, and I miss feeling safe at night. The two, I think, are intrinsically linked.