The Perfect Insanity of Slumber

I have attempted, since my childhood, to tame sleep with little success. I was sleeps’s bitch, beholden to her desperate, nagging desires.

And she owned me.

Not any more.

Insomnia isn’t my beef, aside from pre-teen Christmas Eve incidences and the odd chocolate or coffee based infraction into my slumber, it’s rare for me to be laying wide-eyed, watching the dark room dissolve into progressively more scary numbers on a clock face.

Occasionally, a positively validating event re-affirms my existence and conquers the charlatan of shame which otherwise rules my life. These moments of pure golden joy cause me to lay rigid in bed, grinning unceasingly at the ceiling for hours in amazement that someone, somewhere feels I’m worthwhile.

Otherwise, my ability to fall asleep is well renowned. I can nod off at the doff of a hat. At that precise moment when slumber begins, so does my torment.

As a child, I would sleep walk, sleep talk, grind my teeth, wet the bed, had a recurring nightmare and suffered restless leg syndrome. The act of closing my eyes and floating into a doze happens without effort, but once there, demons surge around my body, tormenting every fibre of my soul.