I don’t fall asleep; I chase sleep, feet crashing against paved streets every night in my hayday. It eludes me more often than not. In fact, I only ever catch sleep at inopportune times: during movies I wanted to see the end of, or against my boyfriend in his living room as his roommates make crepes, or while I’m flossing (fingers still in my mouth, tied together by string).
My body lurches in these moments, desperate to fight off the victory I’ve been chasing. My head falls forward and down until I snap awake for a moment, just long enough to realize everyone knows I’m sleeping. There’s nothing to be done. I try to hold conversations. I reach for cold water. I reposition myself so I’m less comfortable. But when it wants me, no amount of effort staves off sleep.
I wake up hours before anyone else on those nights. My eyes trace imaginary shapes in the dark, straining for light. Sometimes I can’t remember where I am for a second – especially when I’m by myself, in my own bed. But it lasts for just a second, and for that I am grateful. I always remember in the end.
I try to coax sleep to return. My eyes watch the door as if convinced it’ll sweep through, sand in hand, ready to lead me back into slumber. But my door stays shut, my blinds closed. I count backwards until I reach morning.