Dream a Little Dream…

I can’t sleep. After trying rather unsuccessfully to fall asleep for a disappointing three hours, I’ve decided to give in to my wakeful brain and write. I took a short stop from my bed to the computer to check on my two daughters. I found my five year old cocooned in her blanket. Her head was completely covered. I had to unwrap her just to see her face. I was amused, yet somewhat concerned about her ability to breathe submerged in microfiber softness. I freed from her from the fluffy entanglements and inadvertently wakened her briefly. She told me she was thirsty and asked about her earrings. Then she went back to that place I find myself no longer welcomed to… the land of dreams.

I dream of forgotten people and possibilities that never came to fruition. My dreams are a strange land of bittersweet revelation and constant recap of all things negative. If Freud was right, then I punish myself most adequately in my dreams. Maybe my id is saving myself from the super ego’s stern response to my day’s shortcomings. All I know is that sleep does not want me. So, I shake my fist at sleep, and come to the computer to write. I write to no one, and anyone. But mostly I write to occupy myself from the dreaded past that creeps up behind me. I feel it’s icy breath on the back of my neck, and I think to myself, sleep is no friend of mine. If you cannot hide from life in sleep, where can you hide? 

I slept fitfully last night, and I was without want for getting out of bed. I finally let my dog out of his kennel, only to find that he had peed a most ambitious amount. He was absolutely soaked. I began my morning cleaning his kennel, the floor, and him. Then I took all four kids to Starbucks for breakfast, because after that hour long fiasco of cleaning and being totally pissed, I decided the hell with making breakfast. Then I went to Home Depot and bought more cleaning products to finish the job. This whole ordeal would not have been quite so frustrating if I hadn’t just cleaned the entire house two days previous. No matter, though. I love that big stupid dog, and he knows it. Poor guy is only just a puppy still, and I probably didn’t take him out soon enough before bedtime. He’s a good dog.

I try thinking about the future. I try thinking about if I could do things over again. I try to think about sleep. Nothing works. I tried Motrin PM the other night, no go. I drank Neuro Sleep last night. Damn the whole thing, I just can’t get to sleep. I’m not sure what to do. I really don’t want to find myself back in the doctor’s office asking her for help going to sleep, but now that I’m the dread 3-0 I need to actually sleep in order to function. Just like I need to diet and exercise to avoid gaining weight. I wish the Sandman would just come and give me the big K-O so I could go off to la-la land, and be damned, super ego, give me all the bad dreams you want. I can take it. As long as I get a little shut eye, give me those dreams where you are about to be eaten by sharks, anything. I need sleep.

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