I think I may have Stockholm Syndrome. I always want to rush in and defend, or coddle, or just smile at my captor, beaming my adoration. I count the hours or the minutes. I think about it when I'm with others who normally please me or who depend on me, and pay almost no attention to those who're both, such as my family.
"Uh huh" I say to my daughter, who's going on about the story line of some video game or the YouTube channel that makes fun of the same. "I can see how that would be funny" I say sometimes, but really I don't see and I don't care that I don't see, because all I want to do is fall into the arms of my lover Sleep. It's waiting for me, and I can almost see it when my vision shimmers and one of my eyelids start drooping, which should be terrifying. It is terrifying, except you don't know Sleep! It has so many great qualities!
"MOM" yells my only child, who's got her own problems. The nascent guilt that shows up when she does that startles me- I thought I'd thrown all of that stuff overboard- and I wake up again. "Why don't you just go to bed?" she asks, all Reason and Pragmatism. No, I say, I have so much to do; I have to help you most of all, I say. My daughter makes a face: she knows this argument, she's made this argument her own at school when there's something she is being tasked with that bores her. "I have so much schoolwork to do" she tells her Teacher, then Counselor. She takes the argument as far as she can within the hierarchy, which is not how I intended to influence her: I was all "this is what hard work looks like, child" but my body was all "Jesus get out of my way I'm going to literally fall asleep, as in fall down". But lately that's...ok. The fact that she's only getting maybe half of my effort is not as dire as it was before, it's just not really present when I'm super busy looking into the eyes of Sleep (they are a dreamy blue, a puffy-cloud sky sort of blue.) And Sleep's shoulders? Ah god, I could lay in them for days at a time...
Speaking of dreams, mine are streaming. I only have to be quiet and close 'em for two seconds before the reel begins and I'm somewhere else, with someone else. In these during-the-day-dreams my new friends and I are always looking for some ill-defined thing. The thing is so ill-defined that I don't know if it's an object or an ideal we're supposed to find! Whatever: I can look for this thing (or not-thing) for hours, and my mind is always aware that dreams aren't supposed to last for hours. Nope. They are meant to be smaller things, more manageable states of consciousness, but ha ha. I get to dream for hours sometimes, if I've surrendered into Sleep's demanding presence, and my dreaming brain somehow sends up the message that this is weird, this is wrong, I was in bed for nine hours last night...
But now I want it. I want sleep, I want Sleep, I'll take both or either. Sleep is so gorgeous that I think about it within minutes of getting up, coffee in hand. I'll think about it while I'm driving. It's so dangerous- thinking about it is the same as saying the Demon's name aloud three times- and I nod behind the wheel. To stop this I have to slap my own chest repeatedly, and really hard. I can do the same to my thigh and the sting lasts longer. Pain reminds me to stay awake and also reminds me that my fascination with Sleep will get me killed, or get other people killed. The small part of my mind that can work it out logically will insist that this be the LAST trip in a car that I captain, and I agree. But I still drive, just infrequently. Once a week, twice- still too much. I'll hire a professional literally the second I win the lottery, which I don't play but the principle remains: the second I win, the very second, I'll pick up a phone and tell someone on the other end to hire me a really good driver who has an encyclopedic knowledge of where to get the best decaf latte in any three-mile radius and has a really good fashion sense. This driver of mine will take me to the latest vintage garment auctions, where I'll manage my lassitude with full-caf tea and a willingness to engage to almost any amount of currency over the right embroidered velvet caftan (I'm rolling in it, right?) And said driver will know when I'm over-committed in adrenaline and will pull me away with some vague promise of fresh pastry in the back seat, only to push me backward with just enough force to make me supine.
"Goddamn it, Ingrid (or whatever)!" I'll say, trying hard to not feel the lightness of my limbs or the fuzziness of my vision. "There's no pastry back here-" I'll manage to say, right before my lids crash down again. My driver knows me- this isn't any kind of betrayal, it's an act of kindness to push me onto some cushions when I won't do it myself (perhaps I'll need a caravan. Any driver of mine will need to know how to drive vehicles that are carrying king-size beds inside them.) And when I open my eyes again, I'll ask how it went with the auction.
"Ingrid," I'll say (I'm going with Ingrid.) "Was I driving the cost of a beautiful 1920's ruby velvet cutout-shoulder formal gown at that last gig? Or was I dreaming?" And Ingrid, who is fast becoming my new favorite personal fantasy, will just smile. Then she'll hold up the gown, on a hanger and in protective cellophane, along with a bag of almond croissants in her left hand. She'll keep her right one firmly on the steering wheel. And in all probability I'll promise Ingrid a raise, but only whisper it before I notice my lover Sleep right there next to me in the back seat. "Were you here-" I manage. I meant to also say "the whole time". Sleep looks at me with its' giant, soft, speckling-and-unspeckling globe sized eyes and I'll know the answer was Of Course. The whole time. Of course.
I hate/love sleep. I love/hate Sleep. I wish I knew how to tell the difference.
