I’m freezing my balls off.
It’s cold enough that I could care less that I don’t have balls.
As you may know, I don’t sleep very well, and I sleep even less well in the cold. If I’m not sleeping half the day away I’m not sleeping at all, and even when I’m tired I have a hell of a time getting my brain to shut off. I think too much about the day, about the next day, about the next week, the next month, the next three years, and God forbid I start thinking about immortality because then I’m off into la-la land until the sun rises.
As whiny as this sounds, I’m not complaining; I appreciate my brain for all of its quirks. The fact that I’m constantly thinking makes me hunger for challenges and my hunger for challenges is how I’m able to get my school work done (we’re talking in the absence of heavy depression here; obviously I haven’t got any school work done or else I’d still be going to school five days a week).
I used to be the kid who crumbled when I got stumped on a problem. I was so used to things in school coming easily to me that when I came across difficult problems I fell apart. If I was told I was wrong I’d start crying. I still get humiliated and angry with myself if I’m critiqued but I’ve taught myself what it means when people say “mistakes are how you learn”.
Let’s be honest–someone can tell you that bullshit all they want but that’s not going to make you believe it. You have to show yourself that you learn from the mistake to prove that you actually learn from it.
Anyway, if I’m stumped by a math question now I’ll spend all night thinking about it, going through trial and error, seeing what way theoretically works for my theoretical answer about my physical object (Ugh) unto the point I dream about it.
I’m not even lying. I started having dreams about solutions to my math homework, woke up the next morning, scribbled the problems in the shower on the steam on the door and mirror and aced the shit out of my test. That’s how my brain works. It keeps me up all night, it overreacts, it spends most of it’s time in solitude and detests being interrupted in that solitude . . . but it keeps me entertained. Good or bad.
Now, what does this have to do with anything?
Partly, it has to do with the fact that the more time I spend out of the school the more humble I’m becoming. I see that I need to take this slow. I see that my brain works a little different than the “average” person and I need to work accordingly; there’s no point in trying to paddle up river in rapids. I see that my struggles also give me advantages and I should be thankful for them regardless of the obstacles.
My brain is a little different. It’s not wrong, it’s not sick, it’s just different. And it likes it that way.
That being said, the other reason I have trouble sleeping in my bed is that it’s two twin size twenty year old mattresses stacked on top of each other on the floor. The bottom mattress is from a camper that’s on the back of my dad’s GMC from the 50’s. It’s smaller than the top one because I’m too paranoid one of the springs from it will pierce me in the heart while I’m sleeping. It’s an old mattress, it’s full of old springs, my paranoia is justified. Stop looking at me like that.
The other mattress has developed a serious case of the cave-ins. The middle part sinks in and I flip it every few months so I don’t wake up every night with aching hips.
When I’m able to spend the night at my boyfriend’s house, the first thing I coo over in his bed. It’s got a sturdy (well, kind of) wooden frame and a mattress that’s wider than my wing span and I can curl underneath his four blankets and imagine I’m on a cloud. Until he yanks a pillow from underneath my head while I’m sleeping. He does that, unbeknownst to him, because he’s also sleeping. He puts them on his face. It’s hilariously cute.
But being the anxious freak I am, I often tell him I’m leaving at two or three in the morning because, in addition to my other insomnia issues, it’s harder to sleep in rooms that aren’t mine. He can fall asleep in five to seven minutes–I counted last night–and it takes me at least two and a half hours. During those two and a half hours my usual routine consists of me laughing like a donkey at YouTube videos until my phone dies. Then I just stare in the darkness and hope some demon doesn’t choke me while I sleep.
He turns off all his lights. I hate the dark. I’ve probably never mentioned the fact that I leave my lights on all night. I’ve tried turning them off and I panic. Yes, I’m an adult who cannot for the life of her feel comfortable in the darkness of her own bedroom.
Last night I actually got to sleep and stayed asleep. Unfortunately, a week or so ago he showed me a video about the supposed real “Annabelle” doll (NOT the one in the movie) some dude keeps locked up in a glass case at a museum. Apparently if you touch that shit, other shit happens and shit. You know, things that could be explained by coincidences but are so suspicious that coincidence sounds ridiculous. Priest touching it and getting in car crashes in his brand new car, or little kids tapping the class and getting slashed with cuts across his chest. Whatever.
Point is, I had a dream the doll from the movie “Annabelle” came to life, grew to about six feet with pointed teeth and red eyes and demonic tendencies attacked me and some group of people who were also in my house. After a lot of fighting and curses and all that, we finally got her to the ground and after having a rather pleasant conversation on just . . . life . . . she said “alright, fuck it; no seriously, fuck this shit, I’m out” and shrunk and returned to being a doll.
I don’t know what to think.
I haven’t had a string of nightmares in a while, so I’m assuming this was brought on by my usual anxiety that accompanies sleeping in someone else’s house. We’ve been together a year; it’s not as if this house or his family are strangers to me. But holy fuck does it take me a long time to get used to people. I’m pretty sure they think I’m insane.
At any rate, I used to wake up hyperventilating and staring into the dark like “where the fuck am I” and then I’d realize where and I’d slap my face on my pillow (unless it’d already been snatched) and fall back asleep. It would happen three or four times a night. I’ve had panic attacks there and waking up to the sound of dishes, cars, a dog barking, and a lot of fast Spanish in the other rooms can be hard to get used to.
I hate noises. I can’t stand when people breathe too loud or snore or clank a fork against a plate or smack while they’re chewing–anything that could ultimately crescendo. Anything sharp and sudden. In my room I have a fan I use as a constant dull hum which I use to block out noises outside and noises in the other areas of the apartment.
I’d rather wake up to all that than a screaming hip any day.