Insomnia

Candice Dawson

Can’t sleep again. I keep checking to see if he’s breathing, as though my being gone for even a moment could mean he suffocates to death. It’s bright in his room from the parking lot night lights of Denny’s, which illuminate my hourly chest rise checks. This also includes a ritual pit stop at the potty, just to make sure that I don’t get awoken by a full bladder, among other things.

Sometimes I enjoy the buzz of another sleepless night, like the high of running much further than you’ve ever run before.

Not sure why I can’t sleep, other than crushing anxiety. Can’t seem to get a grip on it either. Sometimes when he’s napping during the day, I’ll be afraid to make a sound so much that my throat will tense and I clutch the counter in silence, unmoving while I listen to hear if he is awake and my moment of reeling will be interrupted prematurely.

On the bad days, I sometimes go to the urgent care for attention. Desperate for help and hoping it doesn’t show on my face. I want pills, but I can’t outright say it. They must offer the drug, as courtesy entails. Because I am leaving the house, I wash my face, brush my teeth, put on clean clothes, get Bear-Bear in some adorable outfit, and get my carpel tunnel-ed arm around a child, a cup of coffee, some kid outing supplies, and the keys in order to get over to the nearest walk-in clinic.

Under reason for visit, I put insomnia. And the time.

The conversation on insomnia centers on bed time routine. Caffeine intake, yes, but not after blah blah blah. Alcohol, a little, so try to stop that. Do you smoke? No. Well, yeah, I mean if we’re counting like, but not much. Which I don’t say, because they’ll think I’m drug-seeking when I get to the part where I’m like, can you give me anything to help me sleep? And they tell me how they don’t like prescribing things for sleep because they’re addictive, so I should probably meditate, and have I considered a food delivery subscription, and churches offer free childcare. Bear-Bear fell asleep on the drive home.

Maybe I need to get a job. Anything to get out of the house more. Can’t find anything where I won’t break even with the cost of childcare. I had an interview for an evening janitor job, but was too tired to go. Haven’t been eating enough.

This morning, we went outside for our daily walk. Bear-Bear walked slowly and picked up many rocks. It was cool and the neighborhood was empty. My clothes were dirty and slack from the weight loss and my mouth was soured with coffee residue. My stomach ached from hunger. “If we walk around this block once, then we can hurry back inside to make something to eat, and empty the dishwasher, and when he sleeps I’ll finally fold all the laundry, so let’s go, walk faster kid,” I thought. The tension in my neck was reaching a breaking point when Bear-Bear sat down on the curb and looked up.

Moon.

He pointed up at the pale blue morning sky.

Moon.

His small tongue peaked out from behind his teeth when he said n.

I looked up and centered in the sky was a faint white imprint of the moon, nearly lost in the sunlight.

Moon.

I sat next to him on the curb and looked up while we shared a snack bar.

I wonder what word he’ll learn tomorrow.

What a beauty.