Even a badass, independent chick such as myself sometimes really needs a guy in her bed – namely Mr. Sandman. He’s been avoiding me for the past few weeks and if he’s cheating on me with some slut, I will find him and cut off his sandbags.
Mr. Sandy should know better than to test me because I’m always a dangerous individual, but even more so when I’m in an insomnia phase.
The Reign of Kat’s Insomnia Terror began when I was about twelve. (Yes Sandy and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship since I was twelve years old. He couldn’t even wait until I was a teenager. The fucking pig.)
It started when my parents couldn’t figure out why I was having difficulty staying awake during the day. The mystery was solved when my mother woke up in the middle of the night to find me trying to get out the back door. When she asked me what I was doing I replied by making some kind of unholy snarling and grumbling. My mother called a priest and after being assured that I wasn’t possessed, she concluded that I was just sleep walking.
My parents thought that a change of location might cure my nightly excursions so I went to live with my grandparents after this. The plan seemed to work until one night, about a week after I’d moved in, my grandmother was startled from her sleep to a scream of, “Oh SHIT!” followed by the sound of someone shaking her huge antique writing desk in the den. (FYI, this was during the brief period between my profane toddlerhood and adulthood when I was not prone to foul language, so my grandmother was pretty shocked by my outburst.) My grandmother asked me what I was doing and in an annoyed voice told her I was looking for my sister. Since my sister lived fifty miles away my grandmother concluded I was sleepwalking.
The next night, my grandparents were still awake when I took my nightly jaunt. I silently sat down with them at the dining room table with a glazed look on my face.
“Are you okay, Kat?” my grandmother asked.
I continued to stare at the wall.
“You’re sleep walking, Kat. Why don’t you go back to bed?”
I answered my grandmother by picking up their ashtray, which by that time of night was overflowing with the remains of two chain-smokers depositing ashes into it for the entire day, and then taking a deep breath, and spitting as hard as I possibly could into the ashtray, causing an explosion of ash to erupt from the tray and cover my grandmother, my grandfather, the dining room table, the carpet, and the dogs with cigarette ash.
After a third night of my roaming the house (it must have been uneventful because I never heard the details of it) my grandmother took to booby-trapping the house because, since I showed no signs of discontinuing my nightly constitutionals, she was afraid that one night I’d make it to the backyard. She strategically placed chairs and puppy gates in the hallway to my room as well as the front and back doors, saying that this way she would hear me when I tripped and crashed to the floor if I tried to get out… Somehow, even though I continued to sleep walk throughout high school, I made it through without ever tripping and breaking some part of my darling body.
Nowadays Mr. Sandy and I still are often at odds, though I at least don’t sleep walk anymore. No, as was discovered during the time that I was living with my ex, my insomnia has taken an even more dangerous aspect.
One sleepless night I was feeling particularly frustrated with my insomnia, so I poked my ex in the back until he woke up.
“Oh you’re awake!” I said as he rolled to face me.
“You were poking me,” he grumbled. “What? What do you want?” .
“I can’t sleep.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Well…” I batted my eyelashes and twirled a lock of hair.
Ex rolled his eyes. “I’m tired. Just close your eyes and you’ll eventually fall asleep.”
“No I won’t!” I pouted.
Actually I did, which was a fucking miracle since I was frustrated on two fronts at that point. Unfortunately, as often happened when I managed to doze off during an insomnia phase, I had a nightmare. In this dream a old man in a wife beater and boxers was kicking me. I wasn’t kicking his ass back because he was an old man and it wouldn’t be fair, so in the dream I was finally caught his leg and dug my claws into his calf so he couldn’t kick my anymore.
“OW!” he screamed and tried to squirm away.
I dug my nails deeper as he struggled to kick me again. “I just want you to stop kicking me!” I yelled at him.
“OWWW!” he screamed again. “OWWWWW! STOP! STOP!“
At this point I woke up to discover that I had curled up against my ex – as I would often do in my sleep to his annoyance – and using all of my finger strength to sink my claws into his shoulder and back.
“Why did you do that?!” he screamed.
“I was dreaming! I’m sorry!” Unfortunately I was laughing my face off while apologizing, so he doubted my sincerity.
This is why when a girlfriend of mine was recently talking about how she has a “no sleep over rule” with guys because she doesn’t want them to get clingy, I told her that I have that rule, only it’s for their own safety.
In closing you might have noticed that I tend to go through insomnia when I’m particularly stressed. And what with moving, packing, working crazy hours and putting a deadline on finishing my novel, I can’t imagine why I’d be having difficulty sleeping.*
*Only another week or so of Kat’s moving bullshit and then we’ll be back to regular bullshit. And posts that’s aren’t quite so long–geez!