3 in the Morning

The melatonin isn’t working, so I find myself staring at the neon sign across the street. I can’t tell you what it says. That’s not what I’m thinking about right now. Instead, I can tell you about the morning light that filters through my blinds to wake him up. That light was his alarm clock, but he doesn’t start his days here anymore.

I haven’t slept well in three weeks. My mind can’t settle. The spinning wheel of thoughts overrides all my attempts at tranquility. Meditation, nope. Reading before bed, tried it. Yoga, made me cry. I forgot about the one time he went to Bikram yoga with me. It’s basically yoga in a very hot room. He stumbled through it all. Warrior, tree pose, downward dog. It was cute. He was cute, still is. I wish we always tried that hard for each other.

I have a theory that I’m self-sabotaging my recovery. Like a twisted version of “I Spy,” I find him in everything. Eggs? He always made me breakfast when I slept over. Water? He works for the Navy. T.V.? Our go-to background noise for adult activities. Me not being able to sleep? Him sleeping soundly next to me.

Is he struggling to sleep too? I hope he’s having some difficulties without me. But I’d never wish any bad on him. I’d still sacrifice bits of myself for his happiness. I’d give him a kidney. Why couldn’t he be a worse dude? Make it easy for me to hate him.

I strain my neck to follow a couple walking down the street. Arm in arm. Staying out later than they planned because they didn’t realize time was still moving at its normal pace. Does he still remember our midnight runs to the grocery store? I’d grab his butt in the produce section, and he’d kiss me in the bread aisle.

I’m tired, but going to bed only seems to exaggerate my exhaustion. Nowadays, I drag my feet. I nod at co-workers’ good-morning greetings when I used to smile and wave. Deprivation -- regardless of what you have lost -- always hurts. Your lifestyle shifts, compensating for the new hole to fill, the new things to forget.

Is he the only way I’ll be able to sleep again? I’m starting to think his arm around me is the cure, but another pillow will have to do for now. I see a man crossing the street. Maybe his arm will suffice. Probably not, at least not for a few more months of waking up tired and preoccupied.

I fake a yawn. It doesn’t work. He’s still dancing around in my head. Smiling. Laughing at my jokes. Teasing me. I wish brains were remote-controlled. I could change channels or turn it off, but that would be fatal. I’ll mute the static for now.

I see another couple walking together. One of them stops the other. The confused one looks back to the frozen one. They bring the confused in for a kiss, and everything makes sense again. Now, I’m crying. I’m too tired to be dramatic. I can’t sob past midnight. Instead, I settle for a handful of tears and a lip quiver. Every time I think I’m done crying, I prove myself wrong. That’s oddly inspirational.

I’m not good at depending on other people. Either I don’t let them help me at all, not even let them carry a bag of groceries. Or I give them a front-row seat to my life and don’t fight when they decide they’ve seen enough. I look out from my stage to see not the crowd of others, but the empty chair they surround. That gap alters my gravity. It consumes me and slows me down.

I haven’t seen my friends in two weeks. I decided to take a break after a sad night of drinking and half-assed flirting with strangers. Those poor men had no clue I was cheating on them with the mere idea of another.

I can’t call people. I can’t have a hotline. I never call. It’s not my brand.

I’ve seen enough of this sign and drag myself back to bed. I lie on my right side and imagine rubbing his back. So I lie on my left and feel his phantom arm and hear his stupidly sexy morning voice. I lie on my back and remember that one time we talked about waking up to the other going down on us. As a last resort, I lie on my stomach with my head turned to the side like a swimmer coming up for air.

Sleep must not be allowed for me tonight. 

He would comfort me now. He’d tell me to “come here” and hug me. He’d rub my skin and not say a word, and I’d shut my eyes and try to match his silence. Slowly, my breathing would stabilize, and my eyes would close -- not by force, but by release. 

Surprise, surprise. I’m crying again. My body has broken the “Don’t sob past midnight” rule. However, I always obey my instinct to silence my sadness. There I am: a sleep-deprived woman gasping for air like a fish. Tears roll down the sides of my face and wet my pillow. I won’t change the sheets. It’s not important enough. I’m fine sleeping in my own filth. It’s too late for my breathing to be this shallow. But I still manage to suppress any noise. I will not awaken someone else. No one needs to join me and my nighttime reflection.

“Breathe out,” he says. I can’t even breathe without thinking of him, but it helps. He helps. I just need a new memory of a new person teaching me how to breathe.

After a few more exhales, I reach for my phone. I find his name and draft a message. “Hey, how are you?” Literary genius. I look at the time. 3:47 a.m. I delete the message, put the phone down, pull the covers to my chin and my knees to my chest, and force my eyes closed.