Now I pierce the darkness, new beings appear,
The earth recedes from me into the night,
I saw that it was beautiful, and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful.
— Walt Whitman, “The Sleepers”
Whitman makes sleep sound expansive. Almost holy.
For me, sleep feels like being awake inside a world I can’t control.
In my dreams, I’m being hunted by a serial killer, or I find myself back in the office, having been off sick for years and receiving a demotion for not showing up.
Neither of these things have or will likely ever happen to me. I’d be far too much physical work for a serial killer. Logistically, it doesn’t make sense.
And the beloved newspaper company I worked for—thriving in 2007—closed its doors a few years ago, when the digital world quashed the readership of printed news. Besides, I never recovered enough to ascend that mighty staircase above the printing press.
I’m not a generally anxious person when I’m awake. But somehow, in my sleep, the world is after me.
When I was hospitalized, I blamed my sleep chaos on the surroundings.
The ICU doesn’t sleep. The lights are dimmed, but it’s never fully dark. You and fifty other bodies share the same space, separated only by curtains.
Add to that the regular intervals of intravenous narcotics, ventilator sounds, and unharmonious beeping—many times I struggled to distinguish what was real from what I was imagining, even when I was conscious.
I have a friend who sleeps wholly. She lies down, shuts her eyes, wakes up eight hours later, refreshed.
Her secret concoction: a CPAP machine, a sleep app that plays wind and ocean sounds, and five pillows placed strategically under various parts of her body, keeping her spine aligned and knees supported.
When I travel with her, I have to admit that the white noise from her CPAP and app is soothing. It makes me feel like I’m floating in space. But I still don’t sleep through the night.
I have another friend who swears by CBD/THC gummies.
Now that cannabis is legalized and regulated in Canada, this option has helped many with their pain and nighttime rest. But for me, I just feel slower and dopey. My unsteady body becomes heavier and less reliable.
I admire both of these women. They wake up perky and ready to take on their world, whereas I need a cup of dark espresso before I can even face another human.
I’m a melatonin fan. It helps me fall asleep. Melatonin conquers half the battle.
I just don’t stay asleep.
Sleep, for me, is always interrupted. Sometimes it’s not even my fault. Sometimes it’s our cat Lilo that interrupts. Once it was Marie Osmond.
A few nights ago, I woke up to what I can only describe as a murder in progress.
High-pitched, unearthly screeching tore through the house. Not a normal cat noise. Not even a distressed cat noise. This was something else. A vicious predator with intent to kill. A being—or two beings—darting between rooms on the main floor and basement.
Naturally, I assumed there was another animal in our house—a coyote, most likely. We have sightings often in the Beach. The Beach coyote preys on the meekest and cutest of our loved ones: the lap dog and the domestic cat. Sure, coyotes aren’t known for carrying house keys or organizing break-ins, but I was convinced the howls were coming from one.
We had the patio door open earlier in the day to let the first breath of warm spring air into the house through the screen. Had we forgotten to close the glass slider before bed? Had we left Lilo—nothing but a screen door protecting her—vulnerable to a hungry coyote?
I woke Sam up, first by calling his cell and, when that failed, by screaming his name. By then, the tortured animal had quieted. Its last known location: the basement.
I warned Sam to be careful when he began descending the stairs. There might be blood everywhere.
He looked for Lilo. There was no sign of our cat. Or a coyote. Or blood.
He came back to my room, still gathering his senses at four a.m. A few minutes later, the screeching began again.
He agreed—the sounds did not sound like a cat at all.
By the time he found Lilo, cowering in a dark corner, he discovered she had gotten one of her hanging cat toys wrapped around her paw and couldn’t get it loose. She obviously thought it was a predator and kept flying around the house, trying to escape it, taking on the cry of a coyote.
She hissed at Sam as he tried to pry the toy loose, emitting a slightly softened form of terror.
In the morning, we found Lilo curled up on the couch: a tight little ball of fur, content, deep in sleep. While Sam and I leaned over our coffee cups, breathing in the caffeinated steam, she was likely dreaming of squirrels and cat treats, having forgotten the incident completely.
The following night, a figure I hadn’t thought of in years entered my brain.
I had a dream that Marie Osmond was a book agent.
I sent her my book, then agreed to meet at her office. She claimed to have read it in three hours—which should have been a red flag—and came back to me with a smirk and a no.
She said the only place I’d find my book is on the shelves of No Frills—a budget grocery store chain that I don’t even think sells books.
Hey, at least she’s shopping Canadian.
“I hate you, Marie Osmond. You don’t know anything!” I screamed at her as she exited her office with my book in hand, wearing platform red heels, a too-tight business suit and perfect skin.
I have no idea why I’m dreaming about Marie Osmond. She’s probably a nice person. She’d probably like my book.
The Sleepers is a long poem, much like my nights.
The themes that resonate throughout are transcendently human: vulnerability, the desire for unity, the experience of suffering, but also the way sleep offers a temporary reprieve, where the body is restored and dawn returns as a kind of renewal.
The felon steps forth from the prison, the insane becomes sane, the suffering of sick persons is reliev’d,
The sweatings and fevers stop, the throat that was unsound is sound, the lungs of the consumptive are resumed, the poor distress’d head is free,
The joints of the rheumatic move as smoothly as ever, and smoother than ever,
Stiflings and passages open, the paralyzed become supple,
The swell’d and convuls’d and congested awake to themselves in condition,
They pass the invigoration of the night and the chemistry of the night, and awake.
Between the interruptions, there is rest. There must be. In the morning, I’m no longer fearful. The anxiety has waned.
I can only share what I remember from the interruptions. The remaining hours are a mystery.
I’d love to know your sleep concoctions, or what keeps you awake at night.
As always, thanks for reading. Please:
Bravo 👏 Melissa Williams! This is a brilliant read. I feel this is THE style of vigour and realism that readers desire.
You have beautifully captured an essence of a fine line between reality and dream state.
Well that made me laugh out loud!!! And poor Lilo! It amazes me the noises that can come from our cats…terrifying in the middle of the night! As for sleep, HRT, specifically progesterone, is the world’s best kept secret for a solid night’s sleep! As for dreams, often I’m naked, or at least I’ve forgotten to put pants on…and usually I’m at school…🤣