Waves

“I know what I know.
I am the child I was,
living the life that was mine.
I am young and half asleep.
It is a time of water, a time of trees.”

~Anne Sexton

About once every three or four months I go through little bouts of sleepwalking. I wake up by crashing into tables, tripping down the stairs, or just running smack into my wall. Sometimes I wake up with my phone in my hand, dialing numbers on the keypad. Several times I have woken up at my front door, trying to undo the locks. And apparently the other night I not only unlocked my front door, I also opened it and it’s possible that I stepped outside. This worries me because I live near a busy highway and I don’t want to wake up by accidentally walking into the grill of a diesel truck.

I have a hard time falling asleep as it is, but when I’m going through these sleepwalking periods I get so nervous that I hardly sleep at all. Lately, I’ve just been lying in my bed and staring at the ceiling. When I do fall asleep, it’s a very light sleep and I mostly spend the night just drifting in and out of consciousness, dozing off and then jolting awake again.

So, I stare at the ceiling and my mind spins its reels. Spins and spins and spins. It’s strange, the memories that the mind holds onto. Or maybe it just holds onto everything and releases bits and pieces arbitrarily as it spins its little never-ending circles. I stare. I’m awake but not awake, asleep but not asleep. My mind is like a miniature projector, casting my memories - all of these little flickering images - up to the ceiling:

I’m in California sitting on the stoop of my old apartment building with sailors who have just returned from their latest stint at sea. I’m drinking their beer and listening to them talk. They are loud, but I don’t mind because they have great laughs and they are genuinely happy to be on land again, to be sitting on this stoop. One of the bigger sailors is talking to me and telling me about his job on the ship listening to sonar during the night hours. He tells me how he sits with earphones and observes the sounds that drift all throughout the ocean. The sun is sliding down the sky, the clouds are dripping pink light and he’s telling me about his life underwater, about how on most nights he can hear whales singing back and forth to one another. I love listening to him; his head is shaved, his tattooed arms are burly, and his breath smells like beer laced with cigars as he tells me a story in his rough, scratchy voice about whales singing softly to each other deep beneath the ocean waves. I love this stoop and I don’t want to leave.

But I did. Now, I’m awake, but not awake. I stare at the ceiling and my mind is a little projector:

I’m young and sitting in Norway at an old kitchen table with my mother and our cousin Yon. It’s late in the afternoon and my legs are wobbly from having spent the day travelling on a boat to get here, to this house that overlooks the sea. My mother and Yon are speaking to each other in Norwegian and I’m listening to their voices as I stare out of the big kitchen window that overlooks the ocean shore below us. The sun is hovering over the horizon, its rays swathing the dark, polished wood of the table in golden light. Yon is rolling cigarettes, his fingertips coated in tobacco. I’m listening to the waves through the open window and they make me woozy as I watch them roll in, rising and falling, swelling and crashing. I count them one by one as they bend and break all along the shoreline, sweeping foam across the sand. My mother is speaking Norwegian and everything is soft. I love this house by the sea and I don’t want us to leave.

But we did. Now, I’m asleep, but not asleep. I stare at the ceiling and thoughts are floating around in my head, like waves rolling through the ocean, pushing through my brain at different speeds before spilling out into the dark quiet of my room. I’m asleep, but not asleep. My mind is a little projector flickering memories back to me at different speeds:

Some are fleeting. I’m in New Mexico standing outside in the drizzling rain on my grandmother’s front porch, watching countless raindrops splash on the bright pink petals blooming along the branches of her cherry blossom trees.

Some drag out in slow motion, as though they are unfolding underwater. The memory of my father’s voice saying to me, “I am not happy with you.” And my voice replying, “I am not happy with me either.” But none of these words can sting me, because they are floating so slow that the silence swallows them up before they can really become decipherable. Underwater, everything is faint and muted. Underwater, words just fall away.

My mind is a little projector flickering memories across my ceiling. My eyes open and close, open and close. I’m awake, but not awake. I’m asleep, but not asleep.

***

Note: Things are going well with my eating disorder recovery. I am getting much better at silencing the ED voice a bit, and I am able to fight back against urges to restrict. However, I am struggling a lot with my depression lately, which is probably why I’m having trouble with sleeping.

Also, I’m not going to be around as much for the next couple of days, so I apologize in advance if I happen to fall behind on blog posts and comments. I’ll try not to fall too far behind but if I do, I promise I will catch up. I love your words. You each have a place in my heart and I really do care about all of you. I sincerely mean that.

Lots of love.