I’ve been trying to get to sleep for what feels like months. I’m tired, I get ready for bed, I lay down, and then presto. Not tired anymore.

I’ll lay there in the dark and envy my beloved’s ability to fall asleep within ten breaths. His deep breathing doesn’t sooth me; if anything it adds a level of anxiety. What if it stops and I’m not awake to restart it? Sounds out there I know, but both my dad and older brother have related sleep apnea stories, tales of waking up because they stopped breathing and what they had to do to restart it.

Anxiety has had a field day since May. But the bastard never shows it’s face in the light of day when I can deal with it. No, it waits until I lay down and am warm and comfortable under the duvet. It then parades an ever-changing parade of images through my mind. The mistakes I made, might have made without realizing it and even the ones that I know I didn’t make but might have in an alternate universe. Stupid things I said, and stupid things I didn’t say but only thought so loud they might have heard me. False images of people in HR departments laughing at any one of the hundred resumes I’ve sent out, exclaiming to each other, who does she think she’s kidding? The man at the course I want to get into isn’t returning my email, not because he’s busy and it might have fallen off his radar but because he knows my application is hopeless and doesn’t want to waste any more of his time on me. I’ll think that I should be further along by now, think that I should have learned more, done more, accomplished more by now. I should have used the time to go the gym and become less fat and flabby, gone to the HackLab to meet people & learn stuff, edit the novel, write the stories for submission, finish the online courses I started, get out, do something, finish anything. But of course I haven’t because I am just not that good at anything, not nearly as good as I think I am. I could be, but I’m not. For the eleventy billionth time, I curse my laziness and lack of self-discipline, and think, tomorrow, tomorrow might be different.

But it never is. Every morning, I wake up groggy after finally giving up and taking something to sleep, but too late for it to actually be fully effective before the sun streams in through the space under the roller blind. I have coffee and the best of intentions, but then the day passes with me becoming a little more reluctant every day to do something, to go out, to join the world.

I’m drifting. Yes, I have Plans A through D, but I’m not working them as much as I could be or should be. Days slip past and I’ll be damned if I know where they go. Well I know where some of them go: Netflix is a great time suck. I knit so that I feel like I’m still doing something productive, but seriously, just how many cowls and scarves can one woman wear?

I’m not writing this for advice, or pity or help. I’m writing this after laying in bed for 20 minutes, then getting up to write about the uncertainty and anxiety and, yes, I’ll say it, depression, to write them out of my head so that I don’t spend the next few hours letting it all play out in front of my minds eye again, so that I might get to sleep without special teas or herbal supplements or drugs.

It might be working. My eyes are getting that slightly sandpapery feeling they get when I’m really ready to sleep. Of course, they also feel like that when I’m ready to have a good cry, so who knows.

Allons-y.