To say I haven’t slept for the two years since my mother’s passing would be an exaggeration. To say I have slept very few nights since my mother’s passing without pills would be entirely accurate. And pill sleep is fake sleep that leaves you pissy and with a hopeless feeling in the morning. It leaves you reaching for caffeine that you slurp down all day until the cycle repeats itself the next evening. But you just want your energy back, a little bit of that pizaaz you remember from the days before she died. Instead, you’re like a zombie, wandering through each day, half yourself.
Only thing worse than the pill sleep is the angst about taking the pill. The stubborn unrealistic optimism that tonight will be the night you won’t need it. So you wait hour after hour, trying not to look at the clock, tossing and turning. Until it’s 3 a.m. And you admit defeat, though it’s clear you lost the battle ages ago. You reach inside the dresser. Pop the cap. Take the purple pill.
You turn off the light with a solid sense of confidence that you will be able to sleep. You pass out before the pill even kicks in. Because it was your head, not your body, that needed it all along.