My Own Rhythm

Circadian rhythms are 24 hour cycles that are part of the body’s internal clock, running in the background to carry out essential functions and processes… tied to the cycle of day and night, according to The Sleep Foundation.

I don’t sleep when I am ‘supposed’ to. My doctors are concerned.
It is apparently tied to mental health.
”try and be in bed by 10 or 11 and asleep by..”. They mean pm.

I have tried it many times, both before and after Luke’s death.
It rarely ends well and since Luke’s death…
it’s a shit show.

I lie in bed and await sleep. My mind fills with images of THAT night.
The same old barrage of horror…
Did Luke know it was heroin?
Did he enjoy it?
And here comes the… was it a warm orgasm of death?

And now..
Was he vomiting?
Was he scared?
Did he realize that he had fucked up?
Then the…
Was he scared? (yes, that repeats).
I should have been there.
Did Marlon realize what was happening, panic and hope for the best?
Why was there no naloxone?…

Every question has accompanying, terrible images.
Then they start over, and with each round, the visuals amplify … you get the idea.

When sleep finally envelopes me, the nightmares begin.
I am alone.
Everyone is indifferent to everything, except me.
Adam has a girlfriend in plain sight. I have breast cancer. Adult Luke is dead. Toddler Luke and George are there but I am not allowed access.
Did Luke go to heaven or hell? (new entry but very consuming)
I may be in child labor throughout.
Nobody helps me. Nobody gives a shit. Indifference surrounds me.

“In a nightmare we aren’t equipped with solutions” Molly noted.

But some people dream they can fly.
Perform magic.
Resurrect the dead.
Slay dragons.
End the opioid epidemic.

I have no superpowers in my dreams.
I have tried flying and if you can call a slow breast stroke 3 feet above the ground flying, I guess I have that, but it’s hardly Iron Man shit.

I spend my pre-sleep terrorized by Luke’s final hours and my actual sleep defenseless, lost, bereft, and often blind… and no one fucking cares.
Hardly an incentive to go to bed or sleep.

And so, I have my own special systems to deal with the terrors of the night, a ritual, a routine to take my brain to empty so I may sleep without the shitty picture show.

The NYT crossword is a warm up and the cigarettes begin. Spelling Bee and Wordle come up at midnight along with myriad sodukos. I research, listen to audio books about the opioid epidemic and pharmaceutical fraud, play word games and sometimes watch a lot of TV, which leads me to an ‘empty brain’.

I seldom journal before 1 am and the genius, if it’s ready, starts at 2am as the Laurel Canyon owls seranade me.
Each night I look forward to this part of my day. It’s private, It’s quiet. I am free to weep, or not. I am undisturbed. It’s the time when Luke would have been coming home from set and we would chat and smoke.
So we still chat and I smoke for the both of us.

These are MY ‘essential functions’, MY ‘processes’ of which The Sleep Foundation speaks and I do it when I am awake-ish where I am equipped with the solutions so absent in sleeping. I can finish my thoughts and guide them towards closure or new concepts or actions, whilst I am fully present for them and then journal the tricky shit into shape.
It’s a kind of ‘semi-sleep hygiene’ and it works for me.

I do sleep. But I don’t sleep when the world thinks I should sleep.
When I am done, I sleep. I sleep when I am ready. I sleep deep into the day.
It’s rare that I have to be anywhere at 8am, but if I must, I can, and do.

In truth, this vampire life is MY natural rhythm.
Ask my Mum. I was never tired at ‘bed time’.

My essence, so altered by Luke’s death, has sent me home to my innate natural rhythm, a distillation of my true self, despite society and my doctor’s objections.

How does the circadian rhythm of that owl work?
How does the circadian rhythm of a wolf work?
Maybe I have their same rhythm.
I’m done fighting it.

OK. Time for the Spelling Bee and fags with Luke.