rest:

  1. a bodily state characterized by minimal functional and metabolic activities
  2. freedom from activity or labor
  3. peace of mind or spirit

For a year – from the moment I lost trust in Dexter to the moment I moved out – sleep had been my foe. It evaded me with the spasticity of a flying rapid bat. When I decided to move out for a month, I did so with the resolve of exhaustion. I was exhausted – from the first several months of crying on the couch in the darkest hours of the morning…to the hours I spent compulsively searching the internet for insight on strip clubs and what “really happens in the VIP room,” along with educating myself on the semantics of prenuptial agreements, as well as looking at every major jeweler’s website for an engagement ring that might trigger an ounce of enthusiasm for getting married…to the final months of insomnia I experienced from my guilt-ridden conscious.

When I woke that first morning in my temporary home, I felt rested. I had slept the best I’d slept in ages. It was a soul-seeping sleep. And that’s the thing about me and sleep. It’s a barometer for how I’m doing. When something is bothering me, or I don’t address an issue, it eats my alive. It depletes me – by depriving me of sleep.

But as soon as I started listening to that voice telling me things weren’t right, instead of denying it, I started sleeping like a champ. How I felt during my waking hours was a different story.

That first morning, I felt – icky. There’s no other word to describe it.

“What is this icky feeling? Change?

Am I afraid of being alone? Am I convinced that my life will be worse? Or can I not imagine a better life because I haven’t changed, and I can only imagine a life based on the past?

How do I disassociate a nice home, a “nice” life – with Dexter?

What do I miss? Home? Or Dexter? Or just having someone?”

The following night, again I slept like a champ. And the following morning, I felt – worse. It just sucked. Life sucked. And I probably would have cried but I felt so sucky that I didn’t have the energy for it.

The weirdest thing is in my relationship, I was the sleeping queen – HSH (her sleeping highness). And Dexter, who had the personality of a Wall Street banker – the type who would go to Vegas, drink and gamble non-stop, get an hour’s worth of sleep, take the red-eye home and show up at work that morning before 8A.M., actually slept with me. His friends all joked about it. The man who never slept, who never took naps, would sleep in on Sundays, make love all day and nap with me.

I don’t even recognize that girl. The girl who slept. In college I went 5 days straight without sleeping. But in my two most significant relationships, I slept.

Maybe it’s the only time I can be at rest. I don’t have to prove myself.

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