Last night, I gulped down an orange-flavored melatonin drink, knocked back a cortisol manager pill and a magnesium capsule, and slathered on some lavender-smelling cream meant to calm the adrenal glands. All of this in the name of sleep, which has been difficult to come by during this summer of unemployment. Sleep seems to be a reward reserved for tired people, folks who pour their energy into jobs or families. It isn't for those seeking gainful employment, and it certainly isn't for those seeking themselves.
In the warm, fan-stuttered darkness, I kick the sheets and toss pillows, hoping to get comfortable. I wrap my arm around my partner, bury my face in her neck, pull back to scratch my cheek where her hair tickles my skin, turn over so as not to bother her, bump into my cat who rubs his toothy gums across my jaw and jams his paws against my throat, set him at the foot of the bed, get up, go to the bathroom, head to the kitchen, drink some water, return to the bedroom, crank up the window AC, pop in a pair of earplugs, settle under a sheet, close my eyes, breathe...breathe...breathe, silently ask the darkness to carry me deep enough for dreams, hold my breath, breathe, sigh, and click on my smart phone.
Maybe I'll find what I'm looking for on the Internet.
