Fragile Sleep

My illness has a name, and that name is Murphy. All week, Murphy has been making a terrible nuisance of himself. He lies like a cat on the stairs, waiting to trip me up in the dark. I, all unsuspecting, fall for it every time. Murphy has created little pockets of disarray, and prevented me from tidying them up. He has pinched my nose, picked my pockets, and chained me to the couch. He's stuck gum in the treads of my sneakers and hidden my keys. He's dimmed my eyes, bewobbled my legs, and turned my fingers to icicles. (Try picking up a pen between a pair of icicles some time, the big nubbly kind of icicles you get after several days of melting and refreezing. Ah, Murphy, Murphy, why do you try me so? When will I have paid for whatever dire deed I'm being punished for? Murphy, Murphy, go away! Just for this week, go away, so I can get my stuff and my self out the door!)

I'd meant to move on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday, and then today was the very latest I'd consider--except, of course, I'm still here. I will probably have to beg the landlord to keep my security deposit and let me stick around another couple of weeks. Although I could get my belongings out, with help from the movers, getting myself out would be another story entirely. Even a fifteen-minute trip across town seems like an exercise in agony, this week. Traitorous Murphy--always picking the worst possible moments! I think my body has formed a conspiracy against my brain.

That reminds me. I've got to go and sign the lease on the new place this afternoon. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours--my eyes look like they've been on the world's biggest shopping spree. I mean, even the bags have bags, if you get my meaning. I just can't sleep like this--I--

--oh, sod it. A four-paragraph description of pain isn't even remotely interesting, not even to me. This is marginally more exciting: last night, right round the witching hour, I almost dozed off. It was just me and the telly, running some random late-night film. I think it had Cary Grant in, but I couldn't say for sure. And, anyway, there was I, puffed up like a broody chicken, elbows out, shoulders up, knees supporting my chin, on the verge of sleep. A dream blinked in and out of focus, and then--

"Eeeeagh!" I yelped aloud, threw the covers off, and tried to jump off the couch, frightened out of my wits by the face of a man on the TV screen. I thought it was a burglar. My brain, miles ahead of my body, had me flinging myself wildly at him in a head-on assault. Punchiminthethroat, I mumbled, folding messily into the space between the couch and a nearby box. Killimgood, I sighed. By that time, I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. (It's not a smooth ceiling--it's got a horrible stucco-looking texture. I hadn't noticed that before.)

"Did he get me?" I wondered aloud. Then, I realized it was just the telly all along. As soon as my heart had stopped pounding, I crawled back into bed, feeling sheepish. I couldn't recreate the comfortable position I'd been in before, though, and the blinky dream didn't come back.

"If only..." I croaked, watching Stella sucking the end of her tail--but I couldn't think of anything to put after it, so the sentiment went unformed. I'd meant to say "If only someone else was here," but then I remembered how much I hate people around when I'm not feeling well. I mean, it doesn't sound so bad, the idea of someone stroking my back in a soothing sort of way, but in practice, it makes my skin crawl.

"My last few relationships," I told Stella, apropos of nothing, "have been more...relationsheep--I'm just going 'bout my business, sort of thing, and then I realize someone's following me, grazing off my grass...nar'mean?"

Stella shot me a quizzical look. You're making even less sense than usual, she told me. But you do have a point, about the relationsheep. So, what are you going to do about it?

"Do about it? I don't see how I've got to do anything. No sheep here tonight. No sheep. No sheep. No...sheep. NOSHEEP. Hey, Stella, me and my old husband used to call our living room 'NOSHEEP'. It meant that no irritating mindless folks were allowed in. Joke was on me, though, because he was my first major relationsheep."

You think you're really funny, don't you? said Stella, measuring her words carefully. She sounded just like my mother. She even made the same face, pulling her lips back so her teeth poked out. I turned my head the other way so I couldn't see her...

...and, anyway, that was my exciting story, there. I fell off the couch and talked to my rat. Oh, dear God. I simply must get this move behind me. What a nightmare! I can hardly speak. I wonder if I can sign the lease in blessed silence, this afternoon? I think it would be all right if I could stay curled up the whole time, and just raise my hand to take the pen. (Now, I'm just putting off getting out of my chair and getting into bed, because it's likely to hurt and screw up the good head of doziness I've got going, here. I--I forgot to write about slime molds again, too. I'd like to do that on a day when I can string two words together without thinking they look funny. Everything looks funny when I'm tired.)

I close with this half-arsed lament: Why must sleep be such a fragile thing?