On Insomnia (Not the Cookies)

A doodle attempting to capture my frustration over my insomnia.

For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to fall asleep easily. Sleep would evade me even as a child, long before I had access to a personal phone or laptop in my room. Recently, I found out I have insomnia that has been exacerbated by the pandemic and being quarantined. I’ve tried every method to get myself to sleep on time. I’ve tried putting my phone away hours before bed, reading, melatonin, taking a bath, sleepy tea, water, counting sheep, writing, exercise, and every other trick in the book. I realized if I am anxious about something it does not matter. And during this quarantine I’m finding for one reason or another, I am always anxious. I have come to terms with the uncomfortable truth that my mind will not allow me to go to sleep.

I would not wish this on anyone. I am sure there are many others who live on a spectrum where having control over your body’s basic functions feels like a foregone dream (pun intended) whether it is the result of a physical or psychological condition. As a way of coming to catharsis with my own body, I decided to try and detail the emotional reality of what this lack of control can feel like through a genre I grow increasingly (albeit morbidly) fascinated with: body horror. There is something about the lack of control over your own body that is explored in the genre that I find brutally relatable. I hope you enjoy this.

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*This story is a work of fiction. This is part 1 of 2.

9:22 PM

Today was long. After finishing a deadline due at 5:00, I ended up having to get on the phone with our production team in California until about 8:00. Soon after my friend Nadia called to tell me about her niece and sent photos. The newborn baby looked so serene swaddled in several blankets each in varying pastel colors and prints: yellow, dolphins, dinosaurs, green, owls, and pink. Her nose was scrunched up against her pink skin with her wavy hair slightly tousled from the creases in her sheets. She was going to sleep well, at least for a few hours until she inevitably grew hungry or awoke confused at her own existence.

I had to admit I was jealous. I had not gotten a good night’s sleep in two weeks. For whatever reason, the past few weeks had been filled with tossing and turning, melatonin supplements, and migraines. I increasingly found new ways to distract myself late in the night when I could not call upon a friend for comfort whether it was reading, journaling, or my ever increased Netflix queue, which was seemingly endless ever since the quarantine started.

I looked at my phone to check the time. Damn! It was already almost 9:30. I needed to eat something. I rustled through my freezer hoping to find something quick. Ah yes! I fished my hand into the bottom shelf of my freezer and found a frozen pasta bake that I had made and stored three months ago for an evening like this: an evening where I did not feel the slightest motivation to cook. I placed the container in the oven and went back to my room to grab my journal to go over tomorrow’s schedule. I opened the leather bound notebook and jotted down tasks that need to be finished up tomorrow. Looks like it was going to be pretty similar to last week, a few deadlines here and there but nothing to sweat over. I sighed and let out a chuckle. I was in my twenties and already feeling stuck in my routine, or lack thereof. I wouldn’t mind so much if I could just get a good night’s rest.

DING

The pasta had finished warming up. My stomach and I were ready!

10:35 PM

After eating and washing the dishes, I decided to at least try and get ready for bed early. I changed into my pajamas, cleaned my face, and moisturized. I took a long look in the mirror. I ran my ring finger under my eye, over the small broken capillaries that seeped their way through the purple skin. Ah yes dark circles. Pair it with my gaunt face and recently hollowed eyes and I was a picture of health, just not good health. I then furrowed my brows. I would sleep tonight no matter what. I thought to myself.

Then I noticed something very strange.

On my neck, right above my collarbone I saw words that were engraved into my skin, as if someone had taken a needle and drawn them there. It looked recent as the skin around the phrase was still red. My fingers brushed over the letters and felt the texture of the blood clots that had formed above the pierced skin.

It will all be over soon. It said.

I felt a chill go up my spine. Even though the message itself was foreboding, what creeped me out the most was…it was my handwriting. When would I have done this to myself? And why?

I finally sank into my bed, the mattress slightly lumpy but still comfortable. I could not stop running my fingers over my new scar. I could feel each letter pressed into my skin. It didn’t hurt and what scared me was that it never did. I didn’t remember this ever being there. As if I or someone with my handwriting branded me during the few hours I was actually asleep in the week. But I would have noticed it when I got into the shower this morning. As I turned my neck, feeling the weight of my hair shift to my right, I tried to focus on the print on my wall. It was an abstract portrait of me that my friend Rhonda gifted me when I first moved in. This version of me had red eyes. She was smiling mischievously and looking into a brighter future than mine in her two dimensional well rested body. Her raven hair was intertwined with delicate strings in the pattern of a spiderweb. I hated spiders and Rhonda, never one to pass up a good joke, put their imagery into the piece as a friendly gentle jab at my somewhat irrational fears.

“Now that you’re living on your own, you’ll have to kill plenty of the fuckers on your own. Here’s to conquering that fear!” she cackled.

I laughed at the time and often found myself looking at the portrait when I was feeling down in the dumps about work or my inability to live up to the standards that my sixteen year old self had. There were things like the perfect job as a senior editor of my favorite media company, perfect relationship with a man who dressed like a librarian in a movie, perfect home furnished with colorful midcentury modern pieces, and a motorcycle license so I could ride across the country and visit places I longed for in my dreams: Amarillo, Santa Fe, Austin, New Orleans, and Big Sandy.

I shook my head and plopped my face into my pillow. Thinking about what I haven’t done yet isn’t helpful. I sighed and looked back at the print. I gasped and covered my mouth. The expression of the portrait had contorted, the woman was staring directly at me rather than looking aloof. Her lips were cruel, upturned into a malevolent smile. Her eyes were the vacant, lacking the sparkling mischief from before. I tried rubbing my eyes. Surely the lack of sleep had gotten to me. But the portrait stayed the same. How could it have changed in a single evening?

I felt a searing pain shooting through my back. It was like it was on fire. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes as I struggled to remove my shirt, hoping that I could get a look at what was causing the pain on my back. I struggled to make it to my mirror across from my bed with my shirt off. I screamed as soon as I looked in the mirror. A small spider had nested its teeth into my back, crawling along my shoulder blades with a trail of blood. This was literally a fucking nightmare come to life. I’ll give God one thing. He sure as hell had a sense of humor. I grabbed my hairbrush and used it to swipe the bug off. As soon as the spider was knocked to the floor I used the hairbrush to squash it. As soon as I discarded its body I got on my phone and began googling the spider’s description to see if I needed to call myself an ambulance. It was a plain black spider with a red dot on its back. My keyboard had been replaced with symbols that I did not recognize. I tried to go into my settings and see if the keyboard had been incorrectly selected but everything on my phone had changed into this strange language of runes and abstract communication. I looked up at my mirror and saw that the blood had already clotted on my back. And the message on my back read:

It will all be over soon.

I gulped. What the fuck was going on?

**

To be continued