Sweet Dreams

Even with a sleeping pill and going to bed after midnight, I'm still wide awake by 4am and at times, even earlier.  The demon keeping me from sleep is named Worry.

There's not much point in allowing my mind - given to some very dark thoughts when this happens and it happens nightly these days - to run amok any longer. Try as I might, I can't turn off the restless thoughts and worries and regrets. Every mistake I've ever made, every bad moment I've ever had, and every possible disaster that might happen tomorrow or the next day gets new life. The longer and harder I fight them off, the nearer and stronger they get. Even the animals sense it and they burrow closer against me, all six of them it seems, but there's no comfort in it. Frustrated and annoyed, I finally throw off the covers and leave my warm nest.

It's pitch black and the house is leftover warm. I pull on yesterday's jeans, a flannel shirt and a  pair of socks, light a cigarette and decide to try and write. Claude Rains and Bette Davis are quarreling in the background and the only light is the television's flickering screen and the computer monitor. I keep expecting the animals to start demanding to be fed but they're content to stay in the bed behind me and sleep. Except for one of the cats, who cries and paws until I let him crawl into my lap, they barely stir. I wish I had their peace of mind or their innocence.

When writing fails, I scroll through social media for the latest presidential and political disasters, pull up kitten and rescue videos, and check messages. I write an email or two and balance my checkbook then go back to the writing. The house begins to warm up and the time passes.  By 6, I can hear birds and it's just beginning to get light. I rouse the animals for breakfast, make the bed, and step into a hot shower. By 7, the dishes are washed, the litter is changed, and I'm dressed and anxious to start a new day.

The demon is patient. He may retreat and hide when threatened,may change form to catch me unawares, may even allow me small victories but he never but never gives up the fight. He's really powerful,  housebroken, takes up very little room and doesn't eat much. He's made from fears, upbringing, defense mechanisms and memories and worst of all, he like to let me think I've beaten him.  He comes at night, creeping and crawling under the radar, gaining strength with every life insurance, health care or assisted living commercial. He whispers all the what ifs that I try so hard not to think about. He's back when I wake at 3 am, struggle til 4 am then give up. I can't remember what a decent night's sleep feels like and I need to go to work for the distraction of being occupied.

We live in exhausting and morally corrosive times with a soul-less president yearning to be king.  Worry is on his side.

"To live is to be haunted."  Philip K. Dick