The greatest drug, the greatest fright: slumber

As a child, there was no more mortifying experience than that of going to sleep. Once the clock struck due time, my mother would announce the fateful moment — the terrible omen turned truth — and thus, light would succumb. Silence would reign. 

In darkness, I lay alone. The moon glared from beyond the swinging curtains, dancing along to the rhythmic pulse emanating from the circling ceiling fan above. Its windy tendrils caressed my hair, sending a shiver down my spine. It hummed, the only sound distinct from my racing heartbeat. Neither darkness nor solitude bothered me, but as I closed my eyes — doing as I ought to do — a horrifying chill would wrap itself around my heart. Oppressively, it would crush my struggling life force, compress my lungs fighting for air. A shriek would rise to my lips, but no sound would escape my dry throat. 

Outside, the moon maintained its gaze, unbothered.

“Sleep is just death being shy.” I would whisper, but no one would hear. 

I did not wonder if monsters lay underneath my bed or behind the doors leading into my closet. My worries did not involve eldritch beings or serial killers or werewolves. I knew no such things were there. But I knew I was here — breathing, thinking, living. Once slumber took hold of me, however, I was afraid I would never be again.  

For when I sleep, I cease to be. The one proof of my existence, the one thing I hold on to, dissolves in dormancy. My rational mind: sole anchor to reality. Perhaps fragments bleed onto the fabric of my dreams, faint tones of what I was, but in truth, it is all gone with the wind. 

Every night, as I closed my eyes, I wondered what evidence I had that I would open them again. Anxiously, I could not lie to myself: my hands were empty. A fool’s answer would echo in my mind; prerogatively, it would argue by recalling the images of my waking up every morning. The issue with its words was not merely their inductive fallaciousness, but that those memories offered no proper evidence of my continued existence. Indeed, I could remember falling asleep and waking up. Yet memories of the past are not me. How am I to know that is me? They could be but the recollection of a dead child I believed to be, and I was soon to join them, once I closed my eyes true.

Fact of the matter was, every night I slept was a night I died. Yes, someone would possibly awake in this body, in this very position, with all my memories, in brief hours. But that was not to be me. My stream of consciousness — that which alone remarked my life — indubitably ended. A new one would appear and replace me, but its suspension begged the question of where I would go. And yet, there was nowhere to go.

The moon — final witness of my suicide — stood by and did naught.

As I grew older, my phobia grew into hatred. All I longed for was a future where slumber would not be necessary for human function. Even if I did not die when I slept, a matter that was never to be settled in my heart, something precious was indubitably stolen from me: the one thing I can never recuperate — time. Time asleep meant less time doing what I loved, sharing moments with my beloved or enjoying the pleasantries of life; time asleep was robbed time. 

Paradoxically, however, I came to interact with those who fervently longed for sleep. They ached not for more life, but for less. An interruption, a break, but not an end. Cowards that they were, they anguished for the thought of sparing themselves of life without fully parting from it. They found a wide array of methods with which to escape from it: drugs, careers, social media, hobbies, relationships, addictions, sexual gratification, blindful zealotry. Cowards that they were, they had to be high on something to keep going. Something to forget who they were, for a moment to cease their continuum. They cried and prayed and fought for the opportunity to not be, temporarily. 

And what greater drug could there be than the truest momentary escape of all: slumber?

With slumber, one could forget themselves with an ease that could never be found in the bottom of a bottle, or needle, or professional ladder or emotional letter. Genuine, ultimate temporary escapism — and necessary for health, to boot!

We fear death, yet we too chase a taste of that sweet goodnight. We love life, and yet we avoid it. How come we affirm such contrary ideals? I, like anyone else, have been a coward. Answerless, I turn to my fear, my hate, my dear, my drug — sleep. But whatever lie I believe in my wake, when my eyes close, the cold seeps into my heart once more.

For once the clock strikes due time, the terrible omen turns true and light succumbs. 

Silence reigns, and I am no more. 

The moon retains its watch — as always, a bystander.