At first, you embrace it. Take time for yourself: do crossword puzzles and watch bad sitcoms.
But the embrace goes on too long. You stay up past all the sitcoms until there’s only paid programming. Then you get in bed, count the trains (one every hour on the quarter). Count people you’ve kissed. Count astrological signs of everybody you’ve fucked.
Soon you stop counting, especially the collection that’s formed on your kitchen table. Herbs, tinctures, supplements, flower essences, a hypnosis CD. Even, in your desperation, a perfume said to induce sleep.
You try to use this time to be productive. You check out books from the library on philosophy and logic and math. You pore over them diligently trying to make sense of what never made sense before.
You fake your days, usually making it to where you’re supposed to be. Sometimes you forget. At first it’s a phone call or a bill that slips your mind, but soon whole chunks of information wash away. Words become slippery. You think ceiling fan and say opera.
This whole time, your noble chamomile and melatonin are turning on you. They become vodka and prescriptions, first taken separately, as directed, and then, when nothing happens, together. You feel very Valley of the Dolls.
And when sleep comes, it’s like having a headache and wanting only for the headache to go away. But when the pain first starts to lift, you don’t notice it. Sleep is not a triumph. It just happens eventually.
But the next night comes, and, like a bastardized version of The Arabian Nights, it’s the same story as before. The waiting, the trains, the counting. You try at least to write about it, but how do you write about what never really ends?