the comfort of sleep

Hello.

It’s been a minute since we’ve spoken. Well, it’s been a minute since you’ve heard me, I talk to you all the time. You’re the quiet approval in the air around me as I make decisions and spout ideas. You’re the silent judgement as I make mistakes and inevitably choose wrong. You’re the darkness at 3am and the blinding sun at 7. I don’t sleep much anymore, but I’ve mentioned that before. 

At this point, I can’t remember if I said it to the real you or the you I carry with me — so often do they meld in my mind. The you I carry with me has become so loved in my heart; you always tell me the right thing to do and treat me the way I want to, no should, be treated. By the end of it all, the real you was so callous to me, it hurt me to wake — I was sleeping so much then. Your anger was palpable in the air whenever we coexisted in a room, sleep was my only escape. In my dreams, you loved me, accepted me for my faults and supported my choices. So cruelly you would wake me, telling me I needed to be present, needed to be here for you. But all that effort made me tired, I begged you to just let me be. The day you left with our son, I found accidental peace and slept for what felt like an eternity. 

When I awoke to the cold, dark house I cried out in search of comfort, and found none. I found nothing of familiarity in the home we shared for a decade. The only thing I recognized was the slender body stretched out across the bed, eyes dull and mouth slack. How peaceful I looked there, such a contrast to the way I feel now, always searching for the comfort of sleep.