I type this on my phone at I lie in bed with my legs across Josh's. It's after 11. I've taken to blogging when I'm lonely. Somehow, I don't get as much comfort from my own company in my journal right now, or I'm just too...something...to delve into it.
An hour or two ago, I said to Josh, "I don't know if I'm going to be needy or just sullen."
He said, "You can be both," and that's probably the best response he (or anyone) could have given.
Now, even though I'm sick (the fever and exhaustion came back today after yesterday was fever free); even though I'm drained; even though I've taken Trazodone, NyQuil, and two Xanax (yes, my doctor allows it on occasion); I think I am far from sleep.
Beside me, Josh has been courting sleep for two hours. He's really gone now. For a while, he could drift back into consciousness long enough to answer a question or respond to a request.
Me: Tell an always statement and a never statement.
Josh: Always and never. I will always house you in my heart. *sleeping* A never statement. *sleeping* Never. *sleeping* I'll never stop trying to be who I think I can be. What about you?
Me: I will always do everything I can to be sane. And I will never regret loving you.
Sometimes--no--often, when he's falling asleep, Josh jerks and startles. His muscles practice strange reflexes. He clenches his fists. He sticks his fingers in my ears or presses my eye sockets. He shoves me away. It's all a trauma response and the weirdness of narcolepsy, and I'm mostly used to it, though last night, I did say, "Ow! You punched me in the eye."
Tonight, I said, "We carry heavy burdens."
Josh said, "Yes," and went back to sleep.
It's true in general.
Dysthymia, a diagnosis probably masking MDD and PTSD.
Narcolepsy.
BSD, probably type I, though the doctors diverge.
Panic disorder.
Autism.
intellectual impairment.
Emergent BSD.
Severe anxiety disorder.
And the way we began.
And the rest we brought in: coping mechanisms, trauma, abuse, neglect.
And the debt.
And the mistrust, the hurt, the damage on both sides.
And it's true right now.
The recent discoveries.
The justified bad evaluation.
The uncertainty about next semester.
The chaotic end of this semester.
The strep, the mono, the cold.
The near-constant, month-long fever.
The sprained ankle.
The thin support (though not always).
Our isolation in this place we think of as home.
I reread part of a 2007 journal last year. Even then, I wrote about his hand on my back, stopping its caress, suspended as if frozen, "and nothing, no shifting, no sigh, no throat clearing can start it again." It was years before he was diagnosed.
His touch has always been a lifeline for me, even more than I ever realized until this year. It grounds me. It soothes me. It helps me forgive. And at some point, earlier some nights than others, it stops. He might stroke the back of my leg once in a moment of semi-consciousness. His fingers might move to randomly massage wherever his hand his fallen, my ribs, my face, as if it's my shoulder or neck. It's almost instinctual, but then he goes still. His hand falls; he drops his phone on my head. He's gone.
I recall a few nights when he's sat up, usually when I woke from an intense nightmare. Once or twice, I've asked him to stand up and press his palms to my lower back, where I've kept my tension since labor. But it is like diving deeper when he's drowning. He is sleep starved at all times, and his dense medication wears off by night. We don't do anything that requires us to drive at night: I can't see in the streetlight and headlight spangles, and he can't stay awake, regardless of caffeine and loud death metal music and water dousing and open windows and self-slapping.
Some nights, I E-mail him my thoughts and questions, getting them out of my head and gaining some peace that way.
He told me I was cute with my nightguard in. I'm so glad he found it on the floor. The bite marks in the hard wax are deep. I've been clenching for days and nights, and even though the insert makes me feel like I'm drowning, my jaw and head hurt less, and my crowns may not come loose.
It's late. No one's around. Josh's hands are crossed over his chest as if he's been prepared for burial. He grinds his teeth, a terrible metallic whine. He often moves one hand to cover his eyes, dragging the fingers down his face as his arm gives out. His eyes roll back mid-sentence, mid-thought.
In the morning, he may not remember anything he's said, I've said...maybe even from hours before he started succombing to this mistress who calls him away every night, this master who makes no exceptions. Sleep. It eludes me and consumes him.
But now, I feel that trembling, that shimmering of thought that defies metacognition. And I feel the joy and relief in noticing that my thoughts no longer make sense. Soon, I'll be gone too. The wonderland sense overtakes me. My phone falling on mj ⁿ a sL!,,
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