February 28: Fearing Sleep

Fearing sleep—perhaps equating it with death, 

or at least conflating it with memories of going 

under ether from childhood surgeries when I was

 certain that I was dying—I have always struggled 

going to sleep. Last night, I had a nightmare, the likes 

of which I hadn’t experienced since I was maybe 

10 years old, in which a man whose facial features 

kept changing and who smelled faintly of halothane, 

brushed up against me, and the next thing I knew 

the man was trying to get into bed next to me, 

and I kicked at him until my wife woke me up 

and I realized I was kicking the dresser next to our bed, 

my toes sore and bleeding. And now at least I have 

something to talk about in therapy next week.

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