One of our last days together, he said it looked like my insomnia had been cured. (We were parallel playing with our Jawbone apps, in which we were “team members,” a status that ended about four minutes after his door closed behind me for the last time.)
It was true; it helped having a lover in bed, not only lulling me to sleep with the sounds of his own sleepiness but also the warm pull of his body as it fit so perfectly into mine, two missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that’s since been recalled due to unknown defects.
Now that I sleep alone again there are advantages (though most are unique to my twin bed, which was all but impossible to share with a grown man for nearly a month without some troubles); they are outweighed by the things I miss, and I remember all too often well how in the months and years of my voluntarily asexuality after Jack died I rarely wanted the feel of a man moving inside me, but I often missed the presence of a man next to me in bed, to spoon or to be spooned by.
One of the few distinct memories that remains after all this time since Jack has died is the precise physical feeling of spooning him: I remember everything, from where every part of our bodies were perfectly entwined to the way I would snuggle my nose into the crook of his neck and offer a light kiss just before he’d turn out the light.
A (rather young) friend of mine tells me to enlist male friends to come cuddle with me, so I won’t feel so physically alone (because, believe me, sex is the last thing I need, and if there’s anything emotionally unhealthier than going off to have sex with someone else immediately after a breakup, I can’t think of it; I know better than to treat myself so cheaply). But I don’t want to cuddle with just anyone (not to mention that all of my male friends in NYC are also former lovers of one kind or the other, which would make things even more complicated)—I want to cuddle and fall asleep with a (the? I don’t even know anymore?) man I love. One’s dead and the other (whom I don’t even know how I feel about anymore) keeps telling me I’ve got a lot going for me, a line I half-expect to be followed up with a slap on the back and a hearty “Go Get ‘Em, Slugger!”
In any case, the insomnia is back in full force. I was up until 2am Thursday, 3:30am Friday, 4am Saturday, 5:45 am last night. (And, yes, I’m wearing my blue-light blocking glasses after 8pm when using electronics.) This is followed by sleeping until 2pm or later, meaning I’ve missed half the day before I’ve even taken out my ear plugs and removed my eye mask.
[Yes, I have a doctor. Yes, I’ve had sleep studies and EEGs and I take sleep meds that, if you were to take them, would have you out for a week. For me, they do nothing. Which makes me wonder why I take them… And am allergic to melatonin and valerian root. In other words, this isn’t a call for advice. I’m on the case.]
Sometimes I wish I were a man—a Facebook friend also going through a breakup had sex with someone else right away, tells me I should do the same, or masturbate, which is about as appealing right now as slamming my hand in a car door (though he’s offered to send visuals to help out; see how kind and generous men are?*)—and could fuck my way out of this insomnia. But then I absolutely have to stop myself cold when I think that J might be acting like my FB friend out of pure respect for my mental health, because to think he could move on so and have sex with someone else so quickly is devastating. Just devastating. So devastating I’m using the word three times. (And, yes, I know; it says more about his inability to process feelings and not wanting to learn how to be alone with himself and not knowing who he is except in contrast with or as a reflection of the people and things around him, but that doesn’t make it any easier to think about.) And besides, I don’t want to hook up with someone, even friends I’ve been down that road before with; I want back what I had, like a little girl crying while she looks at the ice cream cone—her favorite flavor!—face down on the sidewalk just moments after she spent the last of her allowance getting the damn thing.
In any case, I’m off to read in hopes that it’ll put me to sleep. I find out tomorrow about a job that’s been bouncing me around from one position tryout to another about what’s going on… and since I think I’m supposed to call them, I bet they’d appreciate a call sometime before 3pm.
*sarcasm, and: I declined, of course