Writing is part of my life now. Every time I say I’m going
to stay away, I’m back before two weeks has passed. Maybe it has become another
addiction for me like Facebook or crack. Maybe I need help, but probably not. I’m
not giving up my paycheck to write a post, or stealing from you so I can open
up a Word doc. Or am I?
I’ve been up since 3am. There were so many things that kept
me from getting a good night’s sleep that I almost don’t have enough room to
write about them all. First: my legs. For me, R.L.S. is all inclusive. By that
I mean it not only distresses my legs, but my arms. Right about the time I fall
asleep, my knees and elbows become spring-loaded and I am shocked awake by my
own vicious movements. The sensation that causes the involuntary movements
while sleeping continues while I’m awake only now I can control my limbs and I
try to hyperextend them and shake them at the same time but Mirapex is the only
real solution for me so I just take another pill and then it was midnight.
At precisely 3am there is a strident distress signal coming
from the bedroom down the hall. It’s fire, carbon-monoxide, or a three-year-old
waking up from a bad dream. It’s the latter-most of those and I can hear it
stomping toward our room which means there will be no more sleep for the weary.
The other kid has a stomach ache now and needs to sleep
closer to the toilet just in case stuff starts to flow freely from either end. It’s
3:15am. For the next hour we play musical beds (and couches) with the only song
being the caterwauling of a frightened three-year-old and the grumpy groans of
a tired 39-year-old.
The last time I see is 4:09. I know when I have to be up for
work, but somehow I clear my mind and get in a few minutes of sleep before my
alarm goes off at 4:20am. I swipe the alarm off and verbally accost my phone. I’ve
gotten roughly six hours of sleep since I went to the bedroom sometime before
8pm, but I feel exhausted because I had to get up so many times.
Thirteen hours later I feel fine. Perhaps I could use a nap,
but that will never happen. It’s 4:12 pm and as soon as I write the last words
of this post, Willie and I will walk down a few blocks to pick up the girls and
the accountability supervenes. There is no longer time to be tired in my life.
There is only time to be an adult.
I am the most productive I have been at any point in my life
and I feel as if I have more duty than I’ve ever been charged with, and I think
I’m handling it well. I wish I had more money and more free time, but I do not.
I have what I have because I wanted it and earned it, and now I must maintain
it and keep it.
The people that prevent me from getting more sleep are the
same people that make me happy. There’s plenty of time to sleep when I’m
retired. There are only so many years that these kids will be kids, and I must
be in the moment, with a clear mind—sober. I have to be present for all of
these little moments that make up life. I want to remember now as the good old
days when I look back and wonder how time has flown by and I’m using a walker
and pooping in a diaper and Amanda has to clean it up. That’s right, Amanda.
You’ll be cleaning up my poops
someday, too.
That is all.
