10 p.m. The day feels over, as far as projects go: I don't have the discipline to work while my neighbors sleep. But the projects will hover indefinitely in the air: I have e-mails to write, friends to call, research to do. Instead, I watch videos on YouTube, or something equally unproductive.
I finish up the dishes, or leave them in the sink for the next morning. My dad used to go to bed right after he started the dishwasher for the night. His dishwasher used to make a low humming sound; mine clunks and roars like a monster.
11 p.m.This is when my husband will begin to make comments like, "When do you plan on going to bed?" Going to bed, however, has always felt like punishment to me. As a child, people made me go to bed when the clock struck. As an adult, I just crashed, sometimes over a book at the dining room table, sometimes on the floor of the newspaper office where I used to work. Don't get me wrong: I love to sleep; I just hate going to bed.
11:30 p.m.This is when I've brushed my teeth and washed my face and lamented over how cluttered my bedside table is. We use a nightlight because my husband likes total blackness, and I used to sleep with the overhead lights on. So we compromise. For months after we got married, I'd half wake up in the middle of the night, feel him next to me, and physically spazz out: Arms and legs would jerk; I'd gasp like someone had just tried to drown me. He would put a hand on my hair and say, "It's me. It's me."
Midnight I can hear my husband sleeping beside me. His breathing gets deeper and his arm around me feels heavier. I almost always feel annoyed by this fact: He has left me behind in the world of consciousness, gone on without me. I feel as though I have been left on the shore as he rowed silently away. I watch him disappear into the dark.
12:30 a.m. I try to relax my jaw. I have a tendency to grind my teeth in my sleep. At 26, my gums are already receding. I work on relaxing my jaw, and my shoulders, and the muscles in my forehead. I try to physically smooth them out with my fingers.
1 a.m. My mind whirs. I think about the schedule for the next day. I think about something I said to a friend last week. I think about running: when and for how long. I think about writing: what and how. I think about God. I think about my husband. I think about my family. I think. A lot.
2 a.m. If I'm not asleep, I might as well get up. Sometimes I get a snack: leftovers, usually, or chocolate. I bring my pillow down to the couch and pop in a movie. The house sometimes clicks or creaks. This is the time when I feel most alone.
5 a.m. If I'm still not asleep on the couch, I'll probably go back to bed. We are the only married people I know who don't have "a side of the bed." Sometimes I sleep on the left, sometimes the right. Last night we switched halfway through: My husband went to the bathroom, and I rolled over onto his pillow. We traded pillows and sides comfortably, in the way of habit.
6:30 a.m. My husband's alarm goes off. Depending on whether I kept him up all night with my sleeping problems, he gets up or hits snooze. He likes getting things done in the morning. He feels lazy sleeping in. I think maybe he has "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise" ingrained in his conscience. I try to get back to sleep, sometimes with success. This is the time I'm most likely to actually get rest: at the time when everyone else is waking.
8:30 a.m. This is the time I got up today. I dragged myself into the kitchen to fix coffee and oatmeal. I spent a lot of the morning rubbing my eyes. I thought about napping and decided against it. So I read and pray, and write and research, and run and cook and eat.
Before I know it, it's night again.
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