Sunday Night Blues

Sunday

It’s Sunday night, obviously. It’s sometime after 1 am. I checked when I got up to pee for the fifteenth time. That I’m not counting, but it feels like it. And here I am, sitting at the kitchen table, writing in a journal like some tween dreaming about their crush or the math test they should be studying for. Not me, though. No dreams (haha) or wishes here. Just wishes for dreams. 

I think this is a waste of time. Probably of electricity, too. Laying in the dark and staring at the ceiling at least is free. But the doctor wants me to “exhaust all other options” before she gives me the good stuff. I tried cutting out caffeine, eating more than four hours before bed, no blue light after 5 pm, the “only sleep” method, the “stay up until you’re tired” thing, the reading the most boring book trick, getting enough exercise, eating healthy food, drinking enough water, sleepy-tea, warm milk, cocoa, toast, everything that she threw at me. I thought she’d cave during my last visit. I brought a written out list and everything. But still, no sleepy pills for me. Now I get to get up and write out my feelings if I can’t sleep. Not sure what this is meant to accomplish.

Monday

And now it’s Monday. I’m earlier tonight. I got up as soon as I realized I wasn’t going to sleep - 11: 43 to be exact. 

I still don’t think this is going to do anything. Didn’t help last night, that’s for sure. I laid down once I was done writing, and stared at the ceiling until I drifted off. I’d guess around 6 or so, if you wanted to know. Only to have my alarm go off at seven. 

But I told the doctor I’d give it a go. I mean, I’m not committing to anything serious, here, but I’ll try it. It makes about as much sense as all the relaxing teas and yoga I paid for, so, what the hell - I can write for a bit. Maybe my incoherent late-night ramblings will be the ticket to some pills that will actually help me sleep?

Tuesday

Tuesday night. Actually, probably Wednesday. But I didn’t get my Tuesday sleep yet, so let’s call it that. Then I’ll feel like I didn’t skip a day, and I won't be confused tomorrow. 

What I should have asked the doctor about is what to write. I’m definitely not a writer. I mean, if I were Stephen King, I could probably hack together an extra couple Castle Rock tales while the whole world is snoring. But I’m not. I don’t even want to be. 

There’s a guy at work who thinks he’s going to write the next best-selling novel. Troy. In the warehouse. Thank god I don’t have to go there too often. It’s all he talks about. His characters and their adventures and all that crap. He’ll stop you and “run things by you” about whether his princess should be saved by his prince or whether it would be a better storyline if she saved herself. I should probably mention that it’s some kind of fantasy epic with about half a dozen princes and princesses vying for some kind of fancy plants, as far as I can tell.

I’m not turning into one of those.

My mind might be complete mush after another couple weeks of this insomnia, but at least I won’t think writing a cheap knock off of the Hobbit will make me rich and famous.

Wednesday

Alright. Hump night. No question. Like a humpback whale. Or a traffic hump. Are they called that? I feel like they’re not, but I can’t remember the real name. So they’re traffic humps now. Camels have them, too. One or two. Maybe even three. Although maybe that’s just in some crappy movie. And a posture problem. I wonder if this middle of the night writing is causing me to get one. It’s certainly not making me sleep. 

Saturday

Ok, I’ve been bad. I took two nights off this writing business. But at least I think I’ve confirmed that it doesn’t make my insomnia worse. Maybe tonight’s assignment can be catching you up on my not-sleeping adventures.

Thursday, I watched the news on mute. I eventually fell asleep, I guess, because I woke up around six and my back and neck have been killing me since. And I’m pretty sure they run more commercials, even on the news channel, past midnight. Felt like I was being sold some kitchen gadget every ten minutes. Who knew I needed a special ladle with six functions? All this time I’ve been using a spaghetti fork for pasta and a ladle for soup and mixing spoons for all the rest. Don’t even get me started on face masks for my feet. Or those colour changing markers...

Last night I actually fell asleep on the sofa. The only problem was that it was at six. PM. Like after dinner, not wake-up time. I haven’t gotten that bad. I hope it doesn’t get to the point that I only fall asleep when I’m supposed to be getting up. God, I’d kill myself. If not on purpose, then like falling asleep when I’m driving or burning the house down by leaving the stove on or something. 

Sunday

Maybe it’s an improvement that I can nap after dinner? It happened again today. If I can just figure out how to stay asleep, even if I only get a few hours in, it might be the best thing for me. 

Mom roped me into going to one of her church things. She needed a ride, because she was on the roster for the potluck and she couldn’t get her casserole there on the bus. Except for nearly falling asleep during the service, it wasn’t half bad, all things considered. Free food (and a plate of leftovers that the minister’s wife insisted I take) and some interesting advice. Again, from that minister’s wife. I wish I could remember her name. It’s obviously Mrs Myers, but she has a first name, too. Something old-fashioned. Margie or Pearl or something like that. But the whole point is that she actually gave me some good advice, along with the pot roast, thirteen kinds of salad, and piles of cookies. 

It came up pretty naturally, actually. I think she’s the first one to say anything about me looking like a vampire so far. I expected the reaction to be a little more, I don’t know quite what, but definitely not so gentle and caring. Although, since she’s a minister’s wife, that’s probably her MO. 

I was perusing the cookie table, after having had my first round of three pot roasts, accompanied by three bean salad, bean and corn salad, corn and cabbage salad, coleslaw, red coleslaw, potato salad, and potato and cabbage salad, and she came over and started in on the small talk. You know, the “we haven’t seen you in a while, Ms Beech” kind of stuff. I nodded, and made the polite replies. And then she  let me have it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, and don’t think I’m prying,” she started, “but you look like you’re not your best today.”

“To be honest,” I told her, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“You know, talking things through is what cured my insomnia,” she admitted. “That’s right, when I was first married, I didn’t sleep through the night for months. Not until the minister sat me down and made me pour out my heart.”

She went on to explain all the things she’d been worried about (keeping up appearances and making sure the church community loved her, mostly), and how talking about them and letting them “out of her heart” made everything better.

Now, I’m not religious at all, and I wouldn’t normally listen to anything more consequential than a bar cookie recipe from whatever-her-name-is Myers, but getting things off my chest actually might work. 

Monday

I should have started yesterday. It was fresh and it felt like a good idea. Twenty-four hours (roughly) later, all my sins just feel like a ball of lead in my guts. Or maybe that’s just the pot roasts and cookies?

Tuesday

Ok. This isn’t going to be easy work. That’s fine with me. If it helps me sleep, maybe it’ll be worth it. Definitely tomorrow. I can at least start getting things out. The beginning can’t be that bad, right? And then maybe things will just flow from there.

Sunday

Well, I’ve managed to procrastinate pretty much a whole week. If it’s any consolation, I now know, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that not journalling doesn’t work. Wednesday, I ate a whole box of rainbow chip cookies instead of sleeping. Thursday I organised the linen cupboard. Friday I tried to read some Poe, although I ended up reading the same paragraph on the second page about a million times and still not making any sense of it. Last night I stared at the ceiling and tried to will myself to write. Maybe that’s progress, because here I am. 

So, let me pour out my guts. It’s not like anyone will read this. The doctor didn’t even tell me to bring it to her. Not even to check that I’ve been doing it. It’s not homework. It’s just something to help me sleep.

It’s guilt. I know it, and I’m not going to deny it. I guess it’s been eating away at me, little by little, like the christmas cookies I used to bake with my mom - it always felt like we made millions the first weekend in December, and then we’d eat them one by one by one, and by the time New Year’s hit, we’d be down to a couple dozen, and by the time we went back to school, they’d all be gone. Or, I guess, like water eroding boulders into sand. I guess that’s more literary and classy. Cookies are more fun, though. And they fit better with guilt. Realizing that the five of us, and a couple of guests, had eaten all those cookies in the span of a month was kind of a guilty thing, you know. 

I just wonder why now. I’ve been sleeping fine for going on twenty years, so why is this bugging me now? Maybe it’s some kind of mid-life crisis thing. Or maybe it’s been nagging at me in other ways this whole time and I just didn’t notice. Maybe, if it hadn’t happened I would have gone to grad school or law school or something and become, I don’t know, an astronaut or the governor general or something. Maybe all the mediocre office jobs have been a penance all this time. Or maybe I’d have been skinny and pretty and married rich. Or married happy. Maybe I’d have a gaggle of grand kids by now to make cookies for and to wrap presents for and to watch while my own kids took themselves on vacations or date nights or late work meetings. Maybe I’d have won something. The lottery or a gardening show or something. I could have been rich or at least famous if it hadn’t happened. Maybe, I guess. 

But would any of those things have made me happier and I am? I mean, apart from the messy divorce, my life isn’t all that bad. I’m not living in Trump Tower or anything, but I’ve always had a place to stay, food on the table, and parents and siblings to lean on. 

Sunday

Sunday night again. Another week of the usual. Don’t worry, I haven’t cured myself. Just staring at the ceiling or eating junk food or tidying things that are already put away just fine.

I promised myself I wouldn’t procrastinate, that I’d get it all out tonight, so, goddamn it, I’m going to stop with the details nobody cares about and jump right in. Here it goes!

I'm pretty sure I killed a kid. 

That’s tough to write. It’s tough to think about, actually. I guess that’s why it’s been bugging me. But these are more frills.

It was a long time ago, when I was at university. We were at a party. I didn’t know him, but I kind of knew who he was. We must have had some classes together or he lived in the dorms or something. The point is that I recognized him. And we were at a party. A lot like they show parties on TV, actually. Loud music, smoking, drinking, dancing, talking and general shenanigans. No organisation, just a bunch of kids hanging out. 

I was sitting on this sofa, at one point, drinking some mix of vodka and kool aid or something. It was pink and sweet, and very strong. But that’s not really important. The kid sat down beside me. He was pretty drunk, and he had a full cup of the pink stuff. He was making all these faces, like it was the worst thing he’d ever tasted, every time he took a sip. But he kept sipping. So I started to tease him about it.

“If you think that’s bad, I totally show you worse,” I told him.

“No way,” he said, “this pink shit is the baddest it gets. Even Pepto Bismol is better.”

“It is not.”

“Wanna bet? I’ll drink a whole bottle.”

“I dare you.”

And he did. We found most of a bottle in the bathroom, and he downed it like a champ. No faces at all. 

After that, things got kind of crazy. I dared him to drink all kinds of things. The pickle juice, straight vodka, a mixture of mayonnaise and Diet Coke. He downed them all, no problem, no faces.  Once we cleared out the possibilities of the fridge, we got creative. I was looking around the kitchen, trying to find something else to feed him, and the sink caught my eye. Not exactly the sink, of course, but the bottle of dish soap sitting beside the faucet. It was this awesome bright green colour. I poured some in a glass and filled it to the top with water. I thought for sure that would be the end of the game. But, no, he downed it, seemingly effortlessly.

Every time he could get something down, I just wanted to up the ante. I just wanted to win. To find the one thing, besides the bad punch, that he wouldn’t tolerate.

After the dish soap, we ended up raiding the medicine cabinet. We emptied and crushed capsules and pills, and he downed them all.

Eventually, I gave up and accepted defeat, and we went our separate ways. 

The next morning, on page four, there was a story about a kid who passed out in the quad and later died of alcohol poisoning. The picture confirmed it was him. 

I’m not sure how they decided on alcohol as the cause of death, because I’m pretty sure it was all the other stuff I shoved under his nose that killed him.

So, there you have it. I killed a kid when I was a kid myself. Not intentionally, but, go ask him - I dare you - it doesn’t matter. 

Sunday

What do you know. I slept through every night this week. Maybe confession is exactly what I needed.