I can’t remember most of the books my parents used to read me to sleep. But I know they did it and I know they know they did it. Unfortunately I have passed the age where it is acceptable (or comfortable) for my mother or father to read me to sleep. I must do that on my own now. And that can be scary. Because sometimes all you want is someone to care enough to sit by your bedside until you have drifted off into a different world.
for reference they read me this one.
The night used to be a comforting place to me. I have this fantasy every so often of a time when I stayed up all night and at about 4am went to go read by a window. Everything was so quiet and peaceful it just filled me with this warmth. It was, for lack of a better word, magical. Now, that may sound cheesy but I believe every word I just typed.
There has been a change since the days I would stay up until 4 to read. I have found myself increasingly more afraid of the night. A friend recently asked me to tell him a story. I told him this one (note: story has been edited slightly, just to be more readable. Hey, I’m doing this for you, people!):
Night used to be my favorite. I may have even, at one time, considered myself a “night owl.” But now I’m afraid of the night. Not of the dark or anything but of never being able to fall asleep and escape the boring life I have built for myself. Sleep is the reprieve I get from life but when it gets to be 10 or 11 it already seems like it’s too late. It seems like I will never be able to fall asleep again. Dramatic, but I just can’t figure out how to get through. I self soothe but still there is this fear in my mind that it won’t work. It won’t work this time. Everything will be ruined. But what is everything? Another day? I don’t do anything with my days anyway. And thinking about that just sends me into a spiral of sickening depression.
A sad story, I think. But he knows my troubles and told me I was a damn good writer. Which really meant something to me. As much as I am told I am a great writer one more compliment can’t hurt. But also, at times, I will find myself doubting my talents–my strengths. And strengths are very difficult to find when battling depression. It’s night again. I will battle my fears once again. And tomorrow I will get up, victorious or not, knowing that I am alive and in this moment everything is okay.
Because even as I reread that story I don’t think it was very good. I don’t think it was written as well or as beautifully as I wanted it to be. I just feel silly and like a girl who thinks she can do something she cannot.
In My Mind 