Bed. And Love. But not that way, you perv.

I wish I could sleep in my bed like a normal human being. Don't start on this whole "what is normal" or "what is it to be a human being" bullshit. You know what I mean. Don't be difficult.

As some may know, I used to sleep on my couch quite a bit. Andy snores (I once recorded him for a few seconds then played it back to him the next morning. He either denied that it was him or was ridiculously apologetic. I can't remember which. Maybe both.), I have major struggles with sleep, and Andy gets up way earlier than I, so I don't want to keep him up. A few months ago, I swore that I would get a new bed.

And a new bed I bought. The actual "bed" (frame, head, foot, etc.) went upstairs because the master bedroom's... uh... well, bed was on the floor. It just didn't seem right or adult or natural. But I also bought a new mattress and box spring for the spare room downstairs. I was sick of sleeping on the couch most nights, waking up smelling like pickles (just... my sweat smells like pickles. Sorry for ruining pickles for you) and covered in cat fur. Plus, Ein can't leave me to sleep on my own, so he would take up the end of the couch where I would ideally have my feet. It was uncomfortable and I blamed that on my sleeplessness. Wait. Other way around. You know what I mean.

So, now I have the bed pictured above in the down stairs spare room, also known as Mum's room. I told her she could have it if she ever (finally) comes to live with me.

I sleep there pretty much every night.

Now, some have said that it was healthy for couples to have their own space in the house, and even to sleep in separate rooms if that's what works and blah blah blah. I want to sleep upstairs. I want to sleep in the same bed as my husband. I was looking for a picture of the upstairs bed and came across this:

And we're awesome. That's all there is to it. 

We've tried just about everything to help with Andy's snoring. Nose strips, apnea tests, different positioning on pillows, drinking cold water before bed... Nothing has long-term results. But as I mentioned, it's not just the snoring. I'm defective as well; perhaps more annoyingly so.

Some people talk about how their partner is a pillow/cover/bed hog. I don't know what I fall under, but I am most comfortable in a very specific and usually impossible to achieve in a co-habitation situation position: in the top left corner on top of many pillows like a pet, all curled up and possibly one leg stretching all the way across the bed to dangle over the edge like bait for a shark-cat to come and attack. it has happened.

It's not fair to expect Andy to sleep with my shin in his face. It really isn't. So, I am stuck down here most nights, sad and mostly uncomfortable (I hate disturbing the animals when they sleep on the bed. But that's another FWP for another time) and completely lonely. I bring it upon myself. My brain is just defective. You have no idea how much lavender scented shit I have (presumably to help me sleep). Andy is wonderful and puts up with me trying to assuage my anxiety by reading cards, spraying lavender scented goop on our pillows, ritualistically applying lotion that promises to detoxify and help me sleep... while I sleep, and even a few times, let me apply lavender body butter to his chest so I could sleep on his chest (actually quite comfortable) and still smell the supposedly sleep-inducing scent. 

Each time, I end up downstairs... see above for the appropriate feelings and adjectives. 

I am just so anxious about falling asleep that I keep myself awake. Completely backwards, I know. There was one particularly bad incident in undergrad wherein I stayed up all night, intermittently sobbing and pacing the old apartment because I had to be up at 5:30 the next morning to go student teach. I was so upset that I couldn't sleep that I more or less deliberately kept myself awake. I phoned poor Dr. Kauer (I guess Dr. Beasterfield now...) at 5 am (god, I am such an ass), crying, attempting to explain to her why I couldn't teach that day. I can't describe how terrible I felt. I hate skiving off for bullshit reasons that are my own doing. 

She was quite nice about the whole thing and told me to get some rest, to email my supervising teacher  (Kendra) instead of calling her at the buttcrack of dawn, and to please not call her that early ever again. 

I just don't want people to think I am deliberately lazy about certain things. Look around my house; I am a terrible cleaner in my own home. My day isn't complete until I have stepped on cat puke or a half eaten mouse. Just saying. And I like it like that. But my job, especially when I was a student teacher, was the most important thing to me. I didn't want to be like every other half-assed student just attending college because mummy and daddy told me I had to (they didn't, for the record, but I did get my first laptop as incentive). 

Back to it, I just can't sleep. Part of me wonders if I just want to keep myself awake to be miserable. The rest of me disagrees in the fashion of saying that I feel physically ill if I don't get enough sleep. Then I go into that shame and guilt spiral, cry, and fall asleep 10 hours after I meant to. 

I want to just be able to accept my brain and bodily functions (or lack thereof) and fall asleep when I am tired and to hell with the conventions of sleep and wake cycles for everyone else. I'm a goddamned snowflake! But this snowflake can't tell when she is properly full with food, when she is thirsty as opposed to hungry (water is so amazing dude), when she is happy or sad between one second and the next... I'm a mess.

And so is every other snowflake out there. Fuck.

At any rate, I don't sleep well. And I want to be able to do something more about it than just taking pills or forcing myself to cry so I become tired.

n.b.: I have a theory about forcing yourself to cry and trying to force yourself to have an orgasm. In both situations, the harder you try, the less likely it is to happen and the more silly and frustrated you feel. And you won't be able to sleep after either. 

I should be a life coach

No, really. Even though I can't get my own shit together, I should be a life coach. I have a way about me that convinces others that I am right about... well... everything. Witchcraft!

Tonight I talked to a friend for three solid hours about things that others around him have been trying to tell him, but for whatever reason he didn't listen to them. Something about how I confronted (read: ambushed) him and put the fact out on the table made him see things for the way they were. Sorry I can't be more specific. At any rate, I got a sincere thanks (another thing I won't say unless I mean it) from said friend and hopefully a lifelong positive result with very few refresher ambushes in the future.

But for me? Let's see here. I slept for 14 hours straight on Sunday, I think. What day was that? At any rate, I read all of Portia de Rossi's memoir, Unbearable Lightness, in one sitting (about 3 hours). It was wonderful. My review of it is on goodreads. That's another thing I need to make lucrative for myself: reviewing books and getting paid for it. But anyway, I digress.

I stayed up until 3 am reading that damn book, then slept all day, unaided, and awoke only to have dinner prepped by Andy. Over the weekend, we finished painting the kitchen and I cleaned out the blue room a bit. We found the perfect couch and figured out it wouldn't fit into any part of the house, so we sadly passed it by. I cleaned the far corner of the library (I swept and picked up all the books! And I put the books where they BELONG!) and fussed at Andy about his... different... way of looking at cleaning up. My idea of cleaning up is putting things where they belong. His idea has become shoving things under other things. I was unhappy about that.

Here, I will apologise and admit fault. For the longest time, things had to be exactly how I wanted them. He learned long ago that moving anything in the house could potentially set off an avalanche of angry words and accusations. I guess I should have let Andy know that since we moved into the house, wherever he thinks something should go is where it should go. No more do we have to worry about hiding things away or stacking shit on top of more shit like we did in the apartments. We have more than enough room in the house. For that, I am eternally grateful. So yes, thank you Andy. And I'm sorry.

He knows my stance on those phrases.

Speaking of "should," I got to dish out some advice I myself was given a year or so ago to the aforementioned and unnamed friend. A knitting buddy, Paige, was listening to me grouse about the things I should be getting done. I should have been finding another job, cleaning the apartment, doing school work, blah blah blah.

Finally, she gave me her priceless advice: "Fuck should."

Just... fuck it. There is no should or should not. Kind of Yoda-esque. But at any rate, should is a state of mind, not a necessity. When you think about it, should is in the eye of the beholder, but much more often in the eye of the beholder's overlord.

Above mentioned friend kept saying he should do this and that and then gets sucked into the sneaky hate spiral, or at least the sneaky guilt spiral (we also discussed the difference between Jewish guilt and Catholic guilt-- guess what kind of guilt he was subjected to) and accomplishes nothing. He will admit that.

But what he SHOULD do is nothing. Should is gray. What he wants and needs is so much more important. Yeah, he NEEDS to get some of his shit together. He WANTS to get his shit together. Thus, he WILL get his shit together. The should feeds the apathy and the guilt. Should is a bad word in my philosophical worldview.

I SHOULD go to sleep. I took two sleeping pills 2 hours ago. I WILL finish this blzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The Waydown

I'm friggin tired. I've been tired all day. I bled from my nose for several hours. My #2 is iffy at best, explosive at worst. I have the donkey cough. I've barely been able to eat. I'm out of miiiiiiilk gah! I'm still awake because I am a.) unable to sleep and b.) waiting for my crops to mature for harvest. DONT JUDGE ME! I joined a co-op and I wold feel like an asshole if I didn't at least try...

My knitting will never get done. I finally got to 73 on weatherfield. I read all of "The Absolutely True Diary of a part-time Indian" today in about an hour or so. I wanted to cry when i was done. I actually got some research done, but of course it's all about Sherman Alexie. Surely Tim understands that he dominates the field of not just funny Native American literature, but  Native American literature in general.

My cats all snore. Andy snores. I don't think I snore, but my nose and throat are so dry lately that it wouldn't surprise me.

I have a week left, then I graduate. Then I have to procure a real job. My annoyance level is rising at an alarming rate. I'm definitely taking it out on the wrong people, because I am too chickenshit to say anything to the right people. I just want to lay low until the 7th and let grad school become a distant "well that was interesting" memory/life lesson.

I don't think I was properly equipped or prepared to go to grad school. Undergrad wasn't difficult even in the slightest for me. Grad school, to be frank, was only difficult because I have shitty organization and prioritizing skills. Not to say that the work wasn't difficult... it kind of was, mostly just because of the quantity. At any rate, about a million things have fallen to the wayside, including my marriage. That's definitely the worst part.

I haven't worn my wedding ring in a week. I'm pretty sure I haven't kissed Andy in just as long, if not longer. I haven't told him I love him in a while either. I'm an asshole; I've been assured of this from outside sources. I have poor prioritizing skills, remember?  I should be sleeping, curled up next to him, but I'm an asshole. I'm a selfish jerk. I'm a proud bitch. I'm just a confused 25 year old little girl that can;t get her head on straight. I am a chronic life ruiner.

No, no, I'm not asking for pity. Nor am I asking for more people to assure me of what a dick I am. Trust me, I get that shit daily. I'm just writing stuff down.

Andy asked me a few weeks back what I would ideally do if I could. I immediately responded that I wish I could make a living off of writing. I don't think I am the most well spoken or the most interesting person in the world, but christ if Laura Fuckin Bush can get her shitty book published (and I mean, come on, what the hell is so interesting about her other than her remarkable ability to put up with a moron 5 year old for a husband?), why can't I get anything published?

Because I haven't tried is why.

Without being too dramatic, that really is the story of my life.

I've gotten through this far without stretching myself out too far, without going out on a limb, without taking risks. I'm safe. I know that's not the foremost adjective that comes to mind when someone ponders my being, but in all honesty, I'm a pretty safe gal. I don't do a goddamn thing that makes me uncomfortable (because it's pretty hard to do that), I don't make myself do anything too difficult (I like to say I know my limits), and I definitely don't deliberately make things harder on myself.

Unlike some people I know...

At any rate, I'm fucking tired. I want to try and eat something and keep it down. I'm cold. I can' bring myself to knit anymore tonight, nor write anymore.