The Insomnia’s back

And once again I feel like I have to figure it all out.  At the same fucking time.

Yesterday, as I was undressing to get in the shower I started to think:  What if I don’t want any of it?  

The steam started to billow over the glass shower door and I pressed on that thought as I soaped myself down.  What if I threw it all back in Ambition’s smug-ass face?  What if instead of moving forward in this career, I took an honest-to-goodness Leap of Faith? 

However, I find myself thinking overtime about where I would land.

If I could do anything besides what I’m doing now, what would I do to start again?

Yesterday, someone dear to me asked me what I would do if I could live that “Larry David Life”. 

“What would I do if I had helped to create one of the most successful sitcoms in history? If I had whole swaths of time to myself, no Outlook calendar, and cash to fuel my misadventures?  What would I do, you ask?”

Surprisingly, I could easily fill my life with simple, blissfully mundane things.  Like making my bed consistently every morning, or making a cup of coffee in the French press instead of using Nespresso pods.  I’d pour that coffee and drink it down instead of getting halfway through my morning meetings only to realize it’s all gone cold.  I’d be on to my third book by now.

Would I be happy?  And how much, exactly, does Happy cost?  There’s either a pay cut in my future or the tightening of my golden handcuffs.  

I’m supposed to want this, right?  I’m supposed to know how to balance it all, get to bed on time, take all my vitamins, wake up early to write and be on time for the first am meeting, be engaged. Lean in. Exemplify. Lead.

Fuck, the insomnia is back. 

Amazingly this is the only time this week my writing is flowing.  When it’s Friday afternoon, I can’t seem to focus.  I struggle to get my 1800 words a day, getting caught up on elaborate snacks and my Pinterest mood boards.  Mood boards that are supposed to help keep me focused and immersed in the story universe I’m creating.  

However, when its 2AM and I have to be in the office in another six hours, the words seem to pour out of me.

Today I’m writing to see if I can come up with an answer.  What happens if I don’t want it, after all?  If what I want means blowing it all up or starting again.  

Is it too late to run back and stick to my guns this time?  Go a different way?

Am I truly as stuck as I feel?

I’m suddenly starving as I write out plans for myself, jotting down manageable steps of what I need to do and decide. I throw back the covers and head into the kitchen, my feet padding softly against the floor.  I keep popcorn kernels in a copper tin for emergencies like this one.  When I can’t sleep in the middle of the night and need some nostalgic task to lull away the anxiety, I make popcorn. I pull out my 5-quart sauce pan and heat just the right amount of oil.  I place 3 kernels in the center of the pan and cover.  When the first kernels pops I add a quarter cup more and cover again.  Most of the time, I get the temperature just right.  And most of the time, I end up with a perfect, piping hot bowl of popcorn that I drizzle with Kerrygold butter or sprinkle with salt. 

I clutch the heavy oversized popcorn bowl (because yes I have a bowl specifically for this) and I head back to my room, checking three times that the stove is off. Lord knows I don’t need the added stress of the house burning down.   I climb back into bed and devour most of the bowl until my fingertips are buttered and glistening.

 I’ll turn on Resident Alien or S&TC to watch while I’m munching.  I try not to think about the successful writers behind each show.  How they somehow managed to make writing their day job.   If I keep picking at that thought I’ll never get to sleep. I have to remind myself that a good book can take years and as much as I might want to, I can’t give up my day job just yet. I brush my teeth and pad back to the bedroom, blowing out candles and turning off lights as I go.  

Somehow, with all the corn and salty goodness settling in my stomach, tomorrow doesn’t seem so daunting. My decision suddenly feels simple, really.   I can simply choose something else.  I can take steps to address the root of this insomnia.  If I’m going to be awake all night, I might as well spend the time working through some of these decisions and anxiety.  I can chip away it every night until the path forward is clear.  

Suddenly my eyes are heavy as I try to get my last thoughts typed into my phone’s note app.  The little screen illuminates the bed and the crests of my breasts as I type, undoubtedly craning my neck at some ergonomically disastrous angle.  

What if I don’t want it?  Still, this is probably not the climate to throw caution to the wind.  

And there I am, feeling stuck again.  

I roll over, burying my face into the pillows like a child because the thoughts and decisions are pressing on me. They crowd my mind and stifle me until the only safe place left is sleep.  If I could only get to sleep.  

I recognize that fear is somewhere lurking behind all of this.  And even though I know better, my decision making waivers.  If I can just get a solid night’s sleep, I’ll have it in me to be brave.  With rest, I’ll be able to think clearly and muster enough audacity to haul myself out of this “sitch” I find myself in.

I type more lines and my mind is beginning to clear.  Transferring it to the page usually helps.  Not only are my eyes heavy, but the bed is suddenly one-thousand percent more comfortable than it has ever been.  The urgency to figure everything out tonight has lifted just enough and my muscle and bones are eager to rest.

I promise myself I’ll get home early tomorrow. I’ll finish the rewrite that has been waiting for me since Saturday.  I’ll scroll through some opportunities, pressing play on at least two of them.  Another two the following day.  

I promise myself I’ll get in bed early. But before I can even roll my eyes at how unlikely that is (and the extra pressure I’ve just piled on), I’m already drifting off.