The problem with thinking up snappy witticisms every time you sleepwalk is that, if you sleepwalk as often as I do, eventually you run out.
As of this morning, I’ve run out.
At just about one o’clock this morning, I found myself standing beside my bed. My hands were filled with paper and I knew there was more. The rest of my research lay elsewhere. I didn’t know how it had become so scattered. There was some behind the dresser. My hands empty, I knelt down beside the dresser to reach back there and…
I realized something was wrong. Wasn’t it too late to be doing research? Shouldn’t I be in bed?
But my research…
Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping?
As my bicameral mind slugged it out, I thought I’d do something else. It looked like I was awake, anyway. Earlier, I’d flossed rather viciously as one of my back teeth and it was bugging me so I rinsed with a little Listerine and…
I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong.
Maybe it’s downstairs.
If the thought of someone sleepwalking down a flight of stairs strikes you as scary – well, it does me, too, because last night was the first time I remembered what it was like. Vic, can we pad the stairs? You see, I realize now just how much sleepwalking is like getting two signals on a TV. Eventually, as I wake up, they blend together but it’s really hard to make that happen. And I think this might come close to explaining my hallucinations, too. (What else is sleepwalking if not hallucinating in your sleep?) Going down stairs is like having two, transparent images of stairs, dancing about in front of each other. So, I stepped onto the first step and – thankfully, just about then, I remembered something Vicky had said about a stair railing and grabbed onto ours – there were two sets of stairs, one wavering before another. It was a slow descent.
After a while, I made my way down to the livingroom… then, I realized that I’d been sleepwalking. No research. No papers. Just me in my pajama bottoms.
After an hour or so, a strange realization occurred to me. Whether it be about codes or plans or research, most of my sleepwalking while I’ve been with Vicky has been about searching for knowledge. Obviously, I’m looking for some kind of answer. (Climbing Maya asked “What is success?” Daughter of a One-Armed Man asks “What is love?”) But I don’t know how I’m going to find it in my sleep.
Vicky and I have been talking about getting me help – mental help. The plan is to get a referral from my family doctor, which sucks because I have to go in and say, “Hi. I’m a loony. Can you tell me where to get some help?” Maybe that’s what’s causing the delay? That and I remember my sessions with “Dr. Doom” and how fruitful they were.
But I gotta do something. One reality is hard enough.
Sometimes I feel like the human equivalent of Jenga.
And it doesn’t end there, either. I figure I should write these things down for a time when I do get treatment. Today, as I write this, I’m having my worst day in some time. I’ve already had three people talking to me who weren’t here. (I can’t remember what they said or who they were.) I’m running into a lot of problems with what can only be described as interference. It’s like I’m receiving another signal. Sometimes, it’s verbal and my words are all flummoxed. Other times, it’s worse than that and I can’t even understand words. This changes minute by minute. It’s kind of like a storm, too, in the sense that I’m waiting for it to blow over.
An important distinction to make at this point is that, for the most part, I can tell what is real and what is just in my head. Some small things are slightly confusing but I’m handling it. My point is that I can still function; it’s just difficult.
Anyway, yeah, I need help.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at work and doing as little as possible… just in case.