on rest
or lack thereof
I start to write this post after a long night, a few hours in the ER supporting my partner with the chaos of a Saturday night at Brooklyn Hospital. Im on about 4 hours of sleep but trying to hold off on napping so that I can get decent hours of sleep tonight. This is a cycle I am unfortunately used to. Restless nights and having to manage feeling/doing/being around what few moments of shut eye I was able to get. I’ve been this way since a child and at times it can feel like a chicken or the egg situation. Did XYZ happening cause me to lose sleep or did a loss of sleep exist before (only exacerbating the intensity of XYZ?)
Both of my parents have struggled with insomnia my whole life. I grew up watching my parents in front of the tv at the quietest hours of the night, between everyone else’s bed time and sun rise. Sometimes I’d hear papi snacking on chips in the living room or mommy walking back and forth from her room to the kitchen or bathroom to have a cigarette or 2 or 3. The sound of their yawns more common than ‘Im proud of you’.
There were times in school where’d I’d be in class fighting for my life on 3 hours of sleep. It got to the point where many of my absences were related to accumulated symptoms from this lack of sleep - headaches, stomach aches, swollen eyes. Mommy thought I was always trying to get out of school and I’d argue that my 90+ GPA was always proof that I could handle how much time off I took (the time my body needed). She gave up fighting me at some point when I wouldn’t deliver staying home as a question but instead a statement.
My lack of sleep exacerbated so many basic things, from waking up to getting ready to catching the train on time. I have tender elementary school memories of my mom dressing me in my uniform, pulling up my tights or snapping the buttons on my jumper while my neck hung cause I struggled to keep it up. Or when I'd have my eyes closed sitting on the toilet while she combed my baby hairs so I wouldn’t go to school looking unruly. When I got older, I spent so many mornings heaving on the train platform because being sleep deprived would often make me so nauseous that the walk to the train and up the station stairs would feel like a 5K. Later on I’d also learn how this lack of sleep could and would contribute to manic episodes.
There are many factors behind why I wasn't sleeping. The obvious genetic component - but also the survival strategy of living in a unstable home and staying awake to stay alive, the way my sadness was louder at night when I was alone, the teen angst of staying up too late to talk to online friends and crushes, the books that felt too good to put down, the art projects I was hyper fixating on…
I also think about my fear of the dark and the comfort of being awake during hours where the world felt the quietest.
Earlier this year I got diagnosed with a sleep disorder and it made sense of the somatic intensity of my sleep deprivation. No matter how many naps, shifts in sleep hygiene, I’d always wake up tired. I really AM so tired. Like medically identifiably tired. Validly tired.
A common thing thats kept me awake at night is rumination. So many nights playing over whats been and what could have been. The way I could have stood up for myself, the way mommy could have stopped before papi got too mad, the interaction with my cousin that made me feel like a “baby”, the way I was feeling dismissed by a friend, the things I needed to do to be thin and ‘pretty’, the anxiety over engaging with certain teachers who made me feel stupid (shoutout my 7th grade math teacher…). I would and still do see nighttime as my brain running through a list, activating myself and then sulking in it.
That is, until I found substances and it became activating myself then coping. Through the binge or the purge or the self harm or the blacking out from gulping down liquor I stole so I would stop thinking. Or the pills I’d take to fade away into the night. Only to wake up lethargic, hungover, bloated, still sad. I often coped by pushing my body to its limit, so activated that I’d eventually have to pass out.
In adulthood these ways of “coping” would transform into the abandonment of nighttime creativity and manifest as restless leg syndrome and finding comfort in YouTube videos.
During those long sleepless nights of my youth I found so much of my creativity. Those were hours where writing, collaging, solo photoshoots, vintage hunting online, and talking to internet friends happened. A time where I got to break down every little thing, to a fault, and inspect it with curiosity (also many times judgement) that I learned more and more about myself each time. In the hours of self destruction I’d built myself (my true, core self) in ways I wouldn’t understand until later.
So many nights were spent pulling apart interactions. I grew up feeling like an unreliable narrator. I was called ‘sensitive, exaggerative, a brat’ growing up when I’d have external reactions (tears, eye rolls, walking away). It felt like anyway I reacted was wrong and I couldn't understand why. Whoever I had conflict with couldn’t explain why either. As an adult I do see how some of my reactive moments were times of deep desires to be understood and validated.
I feel bad for the younger version of myself that ached so bad she felt like blowing shit up. That doing so could be one of the only ways of making others feel/see/think about how she felt. I also feel sadness for her thinking she had to turn her pain inwards (through various ways of self harm) because anytime it was outward it became something about her character (being sensitive, a brat) instead of a moment of curiosity and care (Why is your reaction so big? What are you needing at this time? What can we do to make this better?).
I’ve lost rest for years over not feeling understood. I’ve lost rest for years over feeling unseen. I’ve lost rest for years over not feeling worthy or chosen.
I stayed awake wanting justice. Wondering why people couldn’t see my side of things.
Funnily enough, after starting to write this post I’ve gone through another moment with my family of origin that would have rocked me years ago. A moment where I was riddled with guilt over speaking up, only to be excluded. A younger self would have been awake wondering where and how I went wrong. Adult me sees how I could have communicated better, and yet I also see ways I was not met with communication. A reminder of why I take the space that I do. I am not an unreliable narrator. I am a narrator who prioritizes compassion and equity. I am just not narrating the story the way they want me to. The way that absolves them of their contributions.
I did not stay up all night this time running through the situation. I did wake up sad and disappointed today. But I did not lose sleep over the deep existential dread over feeling unchosen or uncared for. Instead I remind myself that self advocacy is something I value, even when Im on the receiving end of it and my triple fire sign energy feels reactive to someone setting a boundary with ME. I know those are my feelings to tend to and not the other persons. I know that receiving and intentionally listening to someone feelings is an act of love.
I titled this ‘on rest’ and maybe it’s moreso about rumination?
Truth is, I had to learn many ways to rest beyond the traditionally spoken of 8 hours of sleep per night. When I learned from my doctor that I haven’t rested in years due to my sleep disorder I felt so validated. I also questioned my definition of rest, as I do with many of my clients. What about those moments of silence sitting in the sunshine hitting my couch? What about those moments laid up with a book instead of scrolling my phone? Or when I let myself stand in the shower too long, just focusing on the water and my breathing? Are those not moments of rest?
I know that my insomnia is nature and nurture. That my parents passed this down as well as my environment shaping a certain hyper vigilance within me.
I see now the restlessness as the active nature of my head and heart.
I finish this post as it’s 5:44am. I have not slept because the weight of this weekend fills my face with a mask of anxiety. I came home upset at how I projected my wounds at a friend and expressed to my partner how what happened last weekend really hurt my feelings. The words above were of triumph over not letting a familial situation hit me so hard, but I spoke too soon. After recounting the incident to my own therapist and seeing her reaction, it gave me a permission I didn’t think I needed to feel the discomfort. To feel the disappointment and shake my head at the audacity of contradictions.
I finish this post on another night of being kept awake by my restless head and heart.
At times I wonder when this will stop. If it will take sleep medication or bedtime meditation or some shit to get me to push these feelings to the side and sleep.
This does not feel like freedom to me at times. Feeling controlled by my emotions.
I bring up freedom and think of Assata Shakur. Now an ancestor. An ancestor who passed in true freedom, guided by a politic and praxis that came from learning and feeling and being and doing.
“I mean, like, nothing is standstill
and nothing is abstract.
The wing of a butterfly
can’t take flight.
The foot on my neck is part
of a body.
The song that i sing is part
of an echo.
What is left?
I mean, like, love is specific.
Is my mind a machine gun?
Is my heart a hacksaw?
Can i make freedom real? Yeah!
What is left?
I am at the top and bottom
of a lower-archy.
I am an earth lover
from way back.
I am in love with
losers and laughter.
I am in love with
freedom and children.
Love is my sword
and truth is my compass.
What is left?” - Assata
A random digital collage I made when I couldn’t sleep last night. Not because of rumination but because I was excited with a bunch of collage material I scanned. A restless creative night like my teen self often experienced.
Tonight I surrender to unrest and will try again tomorrow.
I want to close out with a throwback song that was something I would listen to on some of these restless nights as a pre/teen.It also one of the original inspirations for the post. What do you mean it was released in 2009? What do you mean this has held me for a decade plus of restless nights?
When you see yourself in a crowded room,
Do your fingers itch? Are you pistol-whipped?
Will you step in line or release the glitch?
Can you fall asleep with a panic switch?
Until next time,
In Love, Solidarity and Liberation