Beauty Rest

Waking up on “the wrong side of the bed.” What happened when you weren’t looking? Your unconscious trying to sort through things in the murky waters of itself. Such clear images that don’t make sense upon waking. No compass for the day. Why was she sticking that needle into her stomach? Who was that in the car with me? He was so sweet and then so sinister. The house with rooms that go on forever. Running down the city street, maybe Brooklyn, little robot dogs jumping at my calves. The sound of helicopters hovering. Burning brownies in a gleaming white kitchen.

What the heck am I attempting to work out? I can’t follow the narrative once I’m awake. But I can track the feeling that sticks to my skin sometimes – guilt, anxiety, grief, incompetence. I meet them again and again in my sleep. We wrestle, we struggle, sometimes we ride horses.

The residue of all the unreconciled moments. Starting at the beginning, when we first realize we are not entirely safe. Early on, when we don’t have the dexterity to hold others upright and simultaneously keep moving. Innumerable junctures where our strength doesn’t meet the challenge. When was the very first time that my desire and guilt were at cross purposes, and when those in charge couldn’t simply stand behind me? When did I recognize my side in the transaction? Nothing is free, silly.

The residue of incompletion can taint the present. When I have allowed myself to be bullied, for example, confrontation felt physically impossible. Impossible? Yes. The past leaking into the present and coloring it terrified.

The wrong side of the bed is neither left nor right; it is usually underneath. Crawling out from under the unconscious to slither into the light. It’s too bright, you are too loud, it’s too cold, I am too unprepared. When the present and past crash into each other, the circuitry comes alive, but there isn’t necessarily a clearing.

So, here’s the opening gambit. Look at the situation straight on. Whatever situation you are in. Gently begin to wash off the residue in the fresh water of greater agency. Just the tiniest touch of agency. Let the idea slip in like something tasty. What actually occurred? Let yourself name it. Let the air out of it. Puncture the silence of it. Notice how quickly your heart is beating. Are you light-headed, short of breath, that panic within reach? It’s old, even ancient, maybe. It’s not the first time. It’s not new. You know it well, best friends forever. Say the words. Write the words on a piece of paper. Ruminating turns them back in on you. Turn them out, let them spill out. Get bored. The words tumble out of your body and fall to the floor. Square your beautiful shoulders, raise your chin, breathe in new. Whatever happened, you are ready. (The little one? In the cozy corner of your mind, napping.)

Maybe I will fall asleep tonight with a better sense of being able to complete something, taking a step to parse past and present. A wisp of change, at least. Resting easily on top of the mattress, perhaps not struggling so mightily with my unconscious, but dancing more gracefully with it.