insomnia

Sometimes, I can’t sleep. My insomnia takes on different forms.

As a child, it felt like a soft, velvety boredom, and I’d escape it by watching the shadows of car headlights dance across the walls. After my divorce, it became a cold, heavy feeling running down my spine, holding me in place, choking me in tears, and dragging me into hours of numbness. When it’s stress or too many emotions, insomnia feels like an invisible, nagging old woman shaking me awake just as I start to drift off. I jolt, my heart pounding, struggling to catch my breath.

Other times, it’s just the absence of sleep — a long, quiet night where I can finish even the dullest book.

Sometimes, I know why it happens; other times, I don’t. I used to fear it, get angry, and try to fight it. Now, I’m learning to accept insomnia as a part of me and face it without resistance.