Nightly Routine

Do you ever wish you could fall asleep and never wake up? I do. It is a constant part of my nightly routine. Though the thought seems appealing, unfortunately it is highly unlikely. So when I do manage to fall asleep, it ends instantly, waking up to the dread of another day. Which is why it is currently five in the morning, and I have yet to let myself fall into the abyss of sleep. 

It is not that I have had a traumatic life or anything that is keeping me up into the late hours of the night. Yeah, my parents are divorced and I live with my dad, but I love him. I really do. It's just…there is something in my brain that I can’t swift off. Somedays I feel alright, but when it gets bad, it gets really bad. Like scary bad. And I don’t know how to shut it off. So I am left spending my nights staring at my ceiling losing myself into the depths of my mind. I like it there. It’s warm and cozy and a nice break from reality. When I drift off, I get to be someone else, somewhere else than the lovely unpleasant horrors of my life. 

But sometimes, I get stuck. It is like I have to pry out of my own brain just to be staring at the dull white ceiling again. I don’t like going back after I get stuck because I fear I might never get out. So I spend my time doing other things–all which are very unappealing. 

I toss aside my phone and turn on my lamp, dragging my feet while I walk to my bathroom, keeping my eyes closed as I switch on the singular warm yellow light placed just above the sink. I turn the nozzle of the shower all the way to the left, and sit on the crunchy pink bathmat watching the stem rise above the curtain. After waiting a few minutes, I get up and step into the shower leaving my clothes on, not wanting to see my broken body in its fragile state. 

I stand facing the facet letting the hot water pelt against my head. Soon my watery eyes turn to tears that blend with the trickles of water as it rushes down against my face. I don’t know how long I stand swaying side to side, letting my thoughts drift away along with my will to live before I finally turn the faucet off, shivering uncontrollably once I step out of the tub. The old raggedy bathmat tries its best to absorb the water but it’s no use; a large pool forms at my feet spreading across the tiled floor. I turn off the light and strip off my clothes, plopping them into the base of the tub. I wrap a damp towel around me and head back to my room. My shoulders slunk down once I see the clock reads 5:25 A.M.

I pull on a pajama set; in reality it’s a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt three sizes too big, and I wrap my childhood Christmas blanket around my body and over my head. I have to take a few deep breaths before I muster up the courage to stand back up, having to step over the piles of dirty and clean laundry that is scattered across my floor. My nose scrunches as I twist the door handle, hoping it does not squeak, not wanting to wake my father. But our house is over a hundred years old, so I am not surprised when I pull on the door it echoes. I tiptoe down the hall, stepping on the spots where I know won't make a sound. I make it down the stairs and through the living room that only fits a single two-person couch and a small box television, but my dad and I don’t need anyone but each other, so we fit just fine. 

I open the back door and step out onto the porch. I can tell it is going to be a warm summer day by the softness of the breeze. Darkness still lingers with the sky as I grab ahold of the rusty pipe pressed against the side wall of the house. I have to use my remaining strength to pull my weak self on top of our one-story roof. I notice the shingles are lopsided and broken before turning and sitting facing the backyard. 

When I was young – ten maybe, I don’t quite remember those years – I used to wake in the dead of night drenched in sweat, unable to breathe. My dreams would take hold of my mind and my father would have to shake me awake as my screams woke him. That was the year we started coming out onto the roof to spend summer nights stargazing. I would lay my head on his shoulder as he pointed up telling me the names of the constellations. It was the only time I was ever able to fall asleep, not dreading what the next day held for me. 

My heart aches and I remain motionless as the porch door slides open, holding my breath as I see the top of my father’s head appear beneath me. He turns slowly and meets my gaze. His head titles slightly and eyes soften as he asks, “Sweety, what are you doing up there?” My dad drags a metal chair over, scraping against the wooden porch, before hosting himself up the side railing onto the roof. 

I quickly pull my sleeves further down before I say, “I couldn’t sleep.” Which technically was not a lie, but he did not need to know. I did not want him worrying about me, again.  

“Come here pumpkin,” he says as he sits down next to me, wrapping his long arm around my shoulder, squeezing it tight. He leans in and kisses my forehead. I nuzzle my head onto the crease of his shoulder longing for his affection. 

I try to conceal my shaken voice as I say, “why are you up so early?”

My dad brushes my wet hair and tucks it behind my ear. “I have an early meeting to get to this morning.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not wanting him to leave. I stay there for a few moments, taking in my father’s long rubs against my back. “Do you want to see something beautiful?” He asks in a hushed voice. 

I open my eyes slowly, squinting as orange beams of sunlight peek through the branches of the maple trees. The sunrise glistens across the green leaves, and the tree sways to the soft breeze of the summer song. I let out a long sigh, taking in the beauty of the morning. For the first time, I am not scared of what the day has in store for me, so close my eyes and let myself fall into the abyss of sleep.