Midnight Blues

Early mornings are the worst time for the mind to wander. I usually wake up just after midnight. These days are heavily complimented by a pot of coffee in an attempt to get anything accomplished. Before the drip begins, I lay in bed, wishfully thinking I can go back to sleep. Only to quickly jump up from the most disturbing thoughts. Sure, I will get up for the day.

It’s as if someone wants to play, but the frustration of my ignorance ignites a futile battle of my mind. These lightning bolts zap my body with these thoughts of the most horrific scenes. I don’t watch gory films nor do I listen to true crime podcasts. Yet, these frightening images come to me after waking up in the early hours. I finally submit, waving the white flag and brewing my first cup.

Last Thursday was much like most days, but there was an unusual phone call. Typically my calls will go right to voicemail and I listen to a week’s worth whenever I remember to check. On this day, the phone call occurred when I was sipping my first cup. I thought “Who in their right mind is up at this hour?”. This intrigued me and triggered my finger to slide to accept the call.

Now, you would ask, who would answer the phone at 3am after having been shook up with nightmarish visuals? This gal, of course. Which company makes courtesy calls at this hour? Which family member has found my phone number with bad news to relay?

I couldn’t have been more off the mark. This call was from someone that had searched for me. I did not know the caller, but they certainly knew me. This didn’t alarm me more than the words that were going to be said. “You’ve been selected for a $20,000 grant to produce written accounts of sedative-hypnotics”.

Wait. Why me? I have not submitted a request for a grant in years. I don’t discuss my insomnia (if that’s what you want to call it) with anyone, especially with a licensed medical professional. How would they know I’d be awake at this hour to accept the call. How would they know I already had in mind how to spend the grant money.

I’ve been squirrelling away money as much as possible lately. The city is becoming too much and I had a vision of a small house in the backwoods where I could do my writing. I kept telling myself that once I reached enough for a down payment, I’m gone. That serene backdrop would cure my sleeping problems (or waking problems) and I could infuse my creativity more. Yet, so many questions muddle this vision now.

The other end of this call was cut short. They just simply informed me of the grant and to expect it in one week.

In 24 hours, I didn’t spend my time researching insomnia trials or grants.. I couldn’t put my thumb on who, what or why. I decided to make sure that cute little house in Brittonville was still on the market. Friday, the very next day, there was a knock at the door at 4am. Of course I played along with $20,000 at stake. I looked out the peephole and no one was there. I didn’t even question if I should open the door, I just did. There lay the envelope I had been waiting for. “This envelope would change my life”, I thought.

I hadn’t thought “what does ‘sedative-hypnotics’ mean?”. I didn’t wonder who was behind this. I just trudged on with my plan for the little house in the woods. All that other stuff was just an ornate frame outlining a beautiful oil painting of what life could be in my mind. I tend to keep the good thoughts as long as possible as I know dawn is near and so are the nightmares.

PAfter a few more cups of coffee, I called the realtor. I had been eyeing this place since it came on the market a few weeks ago. A pipe dream I then thought. Now, I was making an appointment to see it. The realtor mentioned that the estate that was selling this tiny, perfect, wood home up north, was looking for a quick sale. I was ready.

I drove six hours, stopping only once for a gas top up. I couldn’t believe this was a possibility to turn this dream into reality. The property started from the road, but the driveway was a good mile to the house. It was cold and dusty looking, just what I was hoping for.

The realtor, like most, wanted to go into details. I needed to confirm this would work as my future home. The cobwebs around the windowsills did just that. I needed my heart comforted by a web that no one wanted to get past. All signs led to the corner room with tiny windows at eye level.

The room had no electrical and the limited daylight that shone in was enough to stumble to a writing desk. “This is where I’m going to write my novel”, I boasted. The realtor was not impressed, but smiled graciously to receive the commission that this sale would bring.

“I’ll take it”. I raced back to the city to pack. Who knew you could pack a one bedroom suite in less than 3 days. When I went back to my new old-house, there was a package on the porch waiting for me. It had no return label, but packets of little yellow pills and a journal. This must be the sedatives I need to write about.

In my new old-house, I didn’t have plans to “make this house my own”, or do a deep clean and paint. I wanted it to feel like no one else was here...like I was spying on an empty house. I wanted to feel the coldness, cobwebs and smell the dust. It had been hard to feel alone in the city. I drank a bottle of wine and took my sedative for what would hopefully be a lovely night of blissful sleep. The drowsiness didn’t take long and I crawled up on the old couch for a snooze.

2am, eyes wide, wishful I’d fade back into a deep sleep. Then the zaps & horrid images found me once again. I sat up and realized I didn’t know which box contained the coffee machine. Not the morning I had hoped for. Sure, the headache from the wine ensued as I was opening one box at a time. “Why don’t I organize anything, god dammit?”.

Finally, coffee in hand, I set off for my writing room. I hadn’t brought up the laptop yet, but instead decided to write in my journal regarding the first night on sedatives. UNSUCCESFUL. My first attempt at a good nights sleep has been a failure. I didn’t have much more to write as the images I had seen were not induced my the medication. They didn’t need juicy details like that. I closed the book and looked around for inspiration.

I noticed on the ledge was a small black notebook. Covered in dust, “what’s inside?” I thought. It was too dusty to belong to the realtor and based on how dusty every other object was, I assumed it belonged to the original owners. Upon opening this notebook, only one page had been written...something about the feeling of occupying space that is not yours - an amateur’s journal. I went back to the couch to try to sleep again. I popped another sedative and laid down.

“BAM!”

I woke from a loud noise again. “Never a dull moment” I thought. I figured this was my mind playing tricks on me. Time to wake, time to play. The noise came from the writing room. I went to investigate if a bird flew in the small window I had left open. No birds, the window was still open, but the notebook was on the floor in the center of the room. Perhaps it caught the wind and took flight. When I picked it up, I looked at the page it had opened to. These were much more descriptive, much more heated than my first glance. I could tell by how hard the author had pushed down on the paper when writing (something I do often in fits of rage). This person was angry at someone they were sharing the house with. Maybe a young adult longing for their own space and time. Maybe a husband no longer in love with his wife.

It happened again the next night. “BAM!” I’d go look and find the notebook on the floor. The more I read, the more I felt the rage of the author. I wanted to sleep and not be taken prisoner by a book. My coffee in take increased fast as the book seemed to want to engage with me every night thereafter.

This notebook kept my gears turning and churned the inspiration I had hoped for. I was feverishly writing most mornings and helped with the dark visions that catapulted me out of bed. I always started in my sedative journal, but other than small bouts of deep sleep, I could see no affects. No salvation from the wicked wakings. So I continued to write...

Until about a week later. I had my nightmares and lay there wondering if I was cursed for something bad I did as a child; not taking our the garbage when told or not being nice to my younger brother. No hypothesis made sense. Then I thought about the notebook. Why did it always catch the wind blowing at the same time of night, revealing some new unhappy scripture. It dawned on me: was the same person or thing that wanted to play by flashing gruesome images on my eyelids trying a new method of grabbing my attention?

These words I read aloud daily, are they meant for me? Was someone not happy that I was now in this space? Was the notebook tied to the little yellow pills? Maybe my mind conjured up the flying notebook? Nothing felt like the truth, but also didn’t feel like false claims. Is this purgatory?