Graudate Student Winner
Insomnomaniac
by Angella Dagenhart
I’m just
about to have an audience with the king of France and his charming wife, when
my bladder begins to pull me from my dream. Half awake, I struggle to retain
the mental footing I have in my imagined world. I turn toward those whose
company I had been enjoying looking for help, but they seem too engrossed in
their conversations to notice me. Cynicism creeps in along the small light
shafts of awareness that seem to multiply by the second. My friends, whom only
moments before had my admiration, now seem absurd in their elaborate clothing
and wigs stacked so high that they dare not turn too quickly, lest risk tipping
like over-dressed Weeble Wobbles. I stand my ground and refuse to leave without
a fight. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve tried the cake!
My body is
insistent, however. First there is only mere discomfort. But before long, tiny
tendrils of pain creep across the floor of the long room. They encircle my stomach and slowly move me
toward the door. I try planting my feet, my arms flailing as I look for
something to grab hold to.
But it’s no
use. The shades of my consciousness have been thrown open and the dream is
gone. Defeated, I open my eyes and glance at the clock. 2:13 am. Damn.
I make my
way to the bathroom, placating the urge that intruded on my reverie. As my
agitation wanes, I can’t help but laugh a little at myself. I either need to
lay off of the double scoop sundaes before bedtime or costume dramas. Or both.
Relieved,
my bladder and I make our way back to bed. I climb under the covers thankful
that the mattress is still warm. I wiggle and shift until I am comfortable and
close my eyes. I lie that way for several minutes until a familiar feeling
sweeps over me. I try desperately to not to think, though that only leads to
thoughts about not thinking.
”Don’t do
this,” I whisper to myself. I shut my eyes tighter in an attempt to block out
the noisy chatter kicking up in my brain. It’s too late—I’ve already entered
into a labyrinth of runaway thoughts. I desperately back-peddle, trying to
retrace my steps to the dark, quiet spot my mind occupied only a few moments
ago. Words fall, blocking my way. Long, run-on sentences force me down a narrow,
dark corridor toward the problems I left at the foot of my bed with my slippers
last night.
Right or
left? I turn right to find my mother’s worried apprehension over my ability
(or, more accurately, inability) to pay off my student loans with the salary I
make at the bookstore—the only job I could find after I graduated. Well, maybe
not the only job.
“I told you
a humanities degree would be worthless!” I hear her say. From the perspective
behind her large desk in her corporate suite, it never mattered that I had
pursued what I loved. She always thought I should have followed in the shoes of
her money driven ambition. “You’re just like your grandfather, with his
romantic sensibilities. You know where that got him? Nowhere. He died in the
same house he was born in, after working the same land all his life.”
“But he
died happy,” I say out loud, feeling immediately silly since I’m the only one
in the room.
I turn my
thoughts down a new path, a long meandering one paved with my hopes and dreams
for the future. I picture myself happy and in love. I picture Philip. I see us
living in a small cottage with a book-lined room where I sit and write. I
picture myself as a mother. The smooth rhythm of this path rocks is like a
lullaby. I’m nearly asleep when a sharp turn forces me onto another path.
Alone. That
single word shines bright, illuminating everything along the straight corridor
that stretches before me. I look around, but find nothing else to focus on but
the nooks and crannies of my own insufficiency. I know this path well. I’ve
walked it many sleepless nights. When I’m lucky, something in my head throws a
switch and things go black as I descend into fitful sleep. Tonight doesn’t seem
to be one of those nights, so I walk on. Alone.
I walk over
the cobblestones marking my failures and defeats. Over shame and regret,
heartache and fear. I lean down and touch the stone with Philip’s name etched
on it. My heart pounds as I trace the letters of his name. “He’s gone. It’s over. Let it go,” I whisper.
I stand and
move on, one foot over another. I move past the job I should have taken, but
didn’t, thinking I was worth more. I’m not as different from my mother as she
thinks. It’s awful knowing how much you’re worth.
I keep
waiting for there to be a bend along the way or for a bit of shade from the
unrelenting spotlight I’ve forced on myself. But there is no stopping this
runaway train of thoughts.
After a
while, my thinking and emoting starts to take its toll. I feel tension work its
way up my back and toward my neck. My head begins to pound.
I reach for
the glass of water on my nightstand just as my alarm goes off. “Son of a bitch!” I curse under my
breath. I grasp the clock tight in my hand preparing to launch it across the
room. I clinch my teeth, feeling the muscles in my jaw bulge, and exhale—a
long, slow, hissing breath. I turn the alarm off and set the clock back on my
nightstand.
The puffy
flesh around my eyes is tender and the rest of my body aches as though I had
been in some sort of battle. I feel only half alive. Worse, the half alive part
of me doesn’t feel much like me. It feels more like some grumpy, sleep deprived
creature—an insomnomaniac.
“Well, if I
don’t want to lose my job, this insomnomaniac better drag its ass out of bed.”
I say out loud. Talking to myself. Great. Not a good sign.
It’s going
to be a long day.
THE END
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