misery

Things always seem magnified in the middle of the night — jokes are funnier, ideas more brilliant, fears worse — and I think I’ve figured out why. It’s because I’m supposed to be SLEEPING and my body is PISSED at me for not being so, and all events get interpreted through a lens of subconscious freaking out.

Hi. It’s 3:30 a.m. and I’ve had maybe 30 minutes of sleep with more looking unlikely. My body’s pissed and now so is the rest of me.

The barely-broken-in upstairs air conditioner chose to cease operations about six hours ago, and since it is Texas in September (not as bad as August but still in the 90s during the day and 80s overnight) we are sleeping downstairs on the futon, which is rather comfortable as a sofa and not bad as temporary sleeping quarters, but it ain’t my Tempurpedic. And it is small, so we are sleeping (or not sleeping) nearly touching, and the body heat generated by my wonderful nuclear furnace husband is intense, so even in the relative cool of the one working a/c unit I am hot and sweaty.

I’ve spent most of the time that I’ve lain awake trying very very very hard to ignore the fact that my arms are itching intensely due to poison ivy. This is easier to do when my mind is occupied by, say, writing, or work, or television, or running errands. Not so much when I’m lying still and trying to will myself to sleep.

I did finally drift off sometime after 2:30 a.m., but woke myself up at 3 scratching. I just don’t know how I can possibly control what I do in my sleep. At least it was only one arm this time, but it was intense and I could not help myself. I forced myself to stop and try to go back to sleep, but holding stock still while that kind of pain (because it is pain) is happening is very hard to do. A few minutes later I went upstairs to douse myself in Calamine lotion, and that brings me to right now, sitting in front of the computer, covered in dried pink glaze, in pain, trying to ignore it but not feeling in the least bit sleepy and knowing that the minute I crawl back onto that futon I’m going to be driven mad.

I’m beginning to doubt my own committment to Sparkle Motion. That’s my new name for Calamine. It sounds fancy and might even be a little bit effective, but in the end it’s just a shiny pink glaze, a thin veneer over misery.