Page 24 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Yes, fine. You go, you’ve been with me all night,’ I say.

‘Is your mum coming?’ Harper asks.

‘No, she’s away for the weekend,’ I say.

‘Is anyone else coming?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I say and my voice wobbles, the tiniest bit. I have no friends is the unspoken bit.

‘Are you hungry?’ Harper asks. Her tone is warm and gentle.

‘A bit,’ I say, looking up at her pathetically.

She looks at Jesse and they seem to be having a silent conversation with their eyes, because suddenly Jesse is going off to find Harper and me some food, and she’s settling into the chair, and neither of them are leaving, they’re going to stay until I’m discharged and drive me home, and my body sags with the relief of it, of not having to be alone, of not having to pretend to be strong, of not having to get a taxi home, of having two people in my life who are willing to help me. It feels so lucky, to have this.

14

It’s Monday night, and I can’t sleep. My ovaries still hurt, not too much, but enough to be distracting, and I’m thinking about Dad. More accurately, trying hard not to think about him. We didn’t have brunch yesterday. As predicted, he texted me saying he had woken up with a sore back (one of his many euphemisms for a hangover) and I said feel better soon, and then he called me that night and I didn’t answer, because I didn’t want to have to tell him about my burst cyst or any of that. He left me a voicemail saying he would transfer some money into my bank account, and I didn’t reply to that either, because I was afraid he would ask how much money I wanted from him, and I didn’t want the pressure of saying a figure.

So I’m awake thinking about Dad and also about my essay that I need to redo, and my short story that I can’t finish, and my failure to be a runner, and worrying about Lauren, who didn’t respond to my text tonight so I assume she’s out drinking and that old kick of anxiety still hits me. Sometimes it’s harder being further away, having even less power to help her.

When I can’t sleep, in the moment, it can feel like a catastrophe. It’s not, and a small, rational part of my brain knows that, but generally it goes like this: I will look at my phone and see 1:45 am (I can still get plenty of sleep, it’s fine), 2 am (still can get four or five hours, that’s heaps), 2:30 am (I should get up, read a book, but instead I might scroll through social media, even though I know the phone itself is probably largely responsible for my insomnia, and I alternate between funny videos that hype up my mind and scary news reports that set my heart racing), 3 am (now I’m feeling weepy, and furious at my brain: just sleep, please just sleep, but I feel wide awake, hours away from possible sleep), 3.30 am (a sleep podcast, maybe, but where are my headphones, maybe I need a glass of water or to get up and pee, even though I know doing all of that makes me more awake), 4 am (you’ve got through a day with no sleep before, you can survive this), 4:30 am (I want to scream because I’m so furious at this body that won’t sleep: just sleep, stop thinking, you trash-heap of a brain), 5.30 am (I might have dozed off for five minutes, this is good, I got some minutes of sleep, I’ll be totally fine!), 7:00 am (wake from a deep sleep as alarm goes off, eyes feel gritty and like they are full of sand, head feels like it’s wobbling on a stick).

When I’m anxious, I can’t sleep. But when I’m tired, I get more anxious. Who designed this crappy system that loops in circles? That’s what I want to know.

The last time I was stuck in this loop, I spent an hour before bed cycling through sleep meditation podcasts, trying to find someone with a voice I like. I find a lot of the male voices unsettling, like there is a man in my room whispering in my ear. The podcast everyone recommends with the man who just tells a long, rambling story that is supposed to make you sleep because of how boring it is, but it stresses me out, because I keep waiting for him to get to the point, and I get worked up with how frustrating I find his diversions.

I finally found one that seems non-judgmental, where a woman says, ‘You’re not asleep, but you’re resting, and that’s good too. Enjoy your rest,’ and it calms me to know that this anonymous woman on a podcast is telling me it’s okay if I have failed at falling asleep but resting and lying quietly is good for me too. Thank you, lady on the podcast, for giving me permission not to get furious at myself, for letting me give my body and my brain a little encouragement, a B+ for resting, for trying hard.

Tonight, I decide to follow the advice I read on a forum for insomniacs, which is to ‘change up your environment’. Leave your bedroom for an hour, and then go back. Even if you are tired, try to force yourself to stay awake for that hour. So I get up from my bed and head for the lounge room. It feels like the right time to bring out my secret weapon. It’s time to start rewatching one of my top-tier comfort TV shows from the very beginning.

I take my laptop and set it up on the coffee table. I am settling in, wrapped in a light blanket, when I hear someone in the kitchen, boiling the kettle, pouring hot water, and then footsteps coming towards me.

‘What are you doing?’ Jesse asks from the doorway. He’s wearing glasses. I’ve never seen him wear glasses before.

‘I’m watching a show,’ I say.

‘It’s pretty late.’ He’s leaning against the door jam, blowing on his tea.

‘I know. I can’t sleep.’

‘Me neither,’ he says, cheerfully, in the way of someone who doesn’t have insomnia, or maybe doesn’t have high expectations for what they want to do the next day and can treat a night without sleep as an interesting occurrence rather than the torturous cage of pain.

‘Are you drinking my Sleepytime tea?’ I say, squinting at his mug. Which isn’t his mug, but my mug, oversize and polkadotted, my second-favourite mug.

‘Oh yeah. I thought it belonged to the house.’ He gives me a quick smile. He is not good at lying. The green tea belongs to the house. The black tea belongs to the house. My expensive, made-on-a-farm-in-Byron-Bay-with-certified-organic-ingredients Sleepytime tea, with the typed label ‘Brooke’s sleep tea’ on it is special. It is to be portioned out like medication. But, fine. We’ve been in a weird truce, a sort of almost friendship since the hospital. The barriers got knocked down, and I haven’t been able to build them up as high again. I guess we’re at the sharingmy-good-tea stage.

Jesse walks over and sits on the couch next to me.

‘Is your ovary hurting?’ he says, then makes a face. ‘Sorry. That’s weird. That’s a weird question to ask.’

‘It’s a bit sore but okay,’ I say.

‘I’ll watch whatever you’re going to watch with you,’ he says.

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Why not?’