Day 54: Unsuccessful Sleep Patterns

From a young age, I learned to recognize when I was dreaming while still asleep. I remember once having a nightmare and noticing something about it wasn't consistent with reality-- something in the location, the people, the occurrences, stood out to me. I was five or six at the time and being chased by a large yellow monster who I referred to as the "cellar monster" since the dark and unsteady basement steps of my parents' house were the first dream world where he appeared. He was chasing me through the funeral home parking lot where my mother would leave her car to pick me up from kindergarten. I stopped running, turned to look him in the eyes, and when he was feet from my face I consciously brought my index fingers and thumbs to my eyelids and lifted them so that I was no longer gazing at his hairy face but at my cracked bedroom ceiling. From then on I was always able to wake myself up when dreams became too unbearable.

For a while, I started to control my dreams. When my fiance was stationed in Germany and Iraq I would conjure him into my dreams so that we could be together. I looked forward to seeing him every night in my sleep. I couldn't always change the location, but he was sure to show up if I just imagined him present.

Working full-time and taking more than the recommended amount of college courses each semester wore me out and I soon stopped wanting to dream. I hadn't yet found stillness in yoga or meditation and sleep was the only time I could shut my mind off and finally rest.  I went through a period of time where I wouldn't dream at all.

After my fiance returned from Iraq and just before our marriage, I started having nightmares that he was having an affair. They went on for months, even after the wedding when he returned to Germany. I didn't tell him at first, but they became so persistent, so troublesome that I finally confessed to him that these dreams that I could no longer control were causing me to begin each morning in a panic that carried over through the rest of my day. He assured me that they were just dreams and that I had nothing to worry about. Although they became less consistent, they never stopped haunting me.

When I found out about his first affair six months after our wedding the nightmares returned at an even greater intensity and there was nothing he could do or say to soothe the wound he'd opened wide. What he referred to as issues with trust I called intuition and my fears were confirmed when his lies surfaced toward the end of our relationship.

Over the past year after he left, I had become a passive participant in my dreams. I no longer cared to control them, and didn't bother to trace back my unconscious conjuring to what happened throughout my day.

During one of the final weekends of yoga teacher training, an Ayurveda specialist came to discuss the ancient system of Indian health and healing. One thing that stayed with me was how different hours of the day correspond to the three major doshas. She explained that the hours of 2-6 AM were Vata dominant and the best time for spiritual practices. Beginning at 6 AM, or at sunrise depending on the season, heavy Kapha sets in until 10AM. Waking up during Kapha hours can make us feel more sluggish than waking up earlier.  Immediately after the class I vowed to listen to my first of three alarms and get out of bed before Kapha could set in. My resolve worked for a while, but eventually I let my sleep hungry mind talk me into staying in bed long past my third alarm.

A month ago today something happened that triggered a part of me from the past that I haven't been able to let go of. I have been having violent nightmares, all of which I wake myself up from only to fall back to sleep into another round of horror. I wake up feeling anxious and unsettled.  This morning, I woke up very suddenly from a dreamless sleep just before 6 AM. I felt refreshed and ready to begin my day. When I rolled over to look at my clock and saw that it was 5:55, I thought it was too early to get up on my second Saturday of summer vacation and went back to sleep.

From 6 AM until 8 AM I woke myself up, panting for air from the worst nightmares I've had all month. Each time, I fell back to sleep against my will. At 8 AM I felt like I hadn't slept all night and was far from the calm, refreshed pre-six-o'clock feeling I'd had earlier. I felt my heavy eyelids closing again and forced myself up, fearing another round of nightmares.

I don't think it was at all coincidental that I woke up naturally before six this morning, or that when I forced myself to go back to sleep I had terrible dreams that haunted me throughout my day. When tragedy rattles our existence it is easy to lose sight of or push away the things that we need to nurture us. It is in these times of change, however, that we should cling to what we know to be good or helpful despite how we may feel we don't deserve them or think they won't help, or when we just don't have the strength to take care of ourselves. A well-known yogi once said that when we teach we say the things we need to hear ourselves, the things we know to be true in our hearts. I write so that I can let go of the ego-fulfilling emotions that are keeping me from hearing the sound of my own voice.

Day 53: Habit

When I was a child, my parents would bring my brother and me to a hill in Boston where we could see the fireworks on the fourth of July. We would park the car at my father's workplace and walk to the spot. My father stuffed beer cans and  cigarettes in his pockets and socks. I remember one year he insulted someone nearby and his beer cans broke free of his thin black, gold-toe socks and rolled down the hill. He chased after them and the family nearby moved away.  My mother would say his name in a way that told me she knew things were getting out of control. She'd hold my brother and I close and "oooh" and "aaah," say "pretty" at all the fireworks. Even then I was hyper-sensitive to those around me. Despite my mother's attempts to appear happy, I knew that she wasn't. With each empty beer can I felt my heart grow heavier.

When the fireworks ended my father would hoist me up on his shoulders so that we could run and weave through the crowds toward his car, leaving my mother and brother to try to keep up with us. He and my mother would get into a fight over who was driving home and my father would always win. I would shut my eyes in the darkness of the back seat and recite Hail Marys the whole way home. 

After my father broke his back we stopped going to see the fireworks.  Instead, he'd sit in his worn-out reclining chair drinking more than usual. He'd sing loud and off-key to the patriotic songs, yell along to the William Tell Overture and ignore my mother when she would hiss "stop" from the other room. "Come on," my mother would say, leading the way up the winding steps to our attic so that we could crouch behind the window and hold back the thin yellow curtain, hoping for a glimpse of the fireworks above the rows of triple-decker houses and apartment buildings in the distance. "There's one," she'd say when a thin line of light appeared in the sky. I never pointed out the fact that we could see them much better from the living room couch on the TV screen. To her, pressing our faces against the dusty attic window was salvaging some semblance of a happy holiday, taking us temporarily away from my father.

When my brother was a teenager he stopped joining us in the attic and instead went out with his friends. My mother and I kept up the tradition for a while. I went up to the attic for her and I'll bet she did it just for me, neither of us wanted to be there, but we were unable to break the habit. One year when I was fifteen, I went into Boston with my friends to sit in the Common and watch the sky light up. I left my friends and hopped the locked fence to the Public Gardens so that I could sit by the pond in the moonlight and watch the swans slowly swimming around. It was one of the most beautiful and peaceful experiences of my life. I wanted to freeze myself in time so I wouldn't have to return to the crowds, the slow-moving train, my parents at home.

When I started dating my husband I always imagined we'd find a place to quietly watch the fireworks together, but after the war the sounds that filled the sky sounded too much like gunfire and would send him reeling back into Iraq.  I only remember one fourth of July that we spent together-- we watched the fireworks on TV. The local station in Georgia was showing the Boston Pops celebration. We didn't have cable and the one channel that came through would cut out every minute or so. We sat together, drinking, missing home.

Last year, just a month after my husband left me, I didn't want to be alone so I spent the night at my brother's house. My niece was just two at the time and we planned to take her somewhere to see the fireworks. She fell asleep and my brother dozed off on the couch with a beer can perfectly poised in his hand just as my father did so many times. My sister-in-law and I quietly watched them on television.

As I prepare to head to my brother's house for a barbeque today, I vow to let go of habit. I can predict exactly how the night will turn out: my father will buy too much food and barely eat any, choosing instead to drink beer after beer until he can barely stand up and says things that he won't recall and I'll struggle to forget.  My mother will look angry and defeated, then abruptly decide when it's time to go home where she'll put on her nightgown and whittle away the hours reading or, if my father starts a fight, she'll go to bed. My brother will eat too much and grab his stomach, sigh, and point out how much weight he's put on.  He and my sister-in-law will plan to go to a parking lot nearby to watch the fireworks, maybe they'll make it or maybe my brother will fall asleep on the couch again like last year.

For years I have been perpetuating this cycle by being a passive participant in family gatherings, not just on the fourth of July, but every time we get together. I find it too easy to slip back into my old, depressed, silent ways when I see that things haven't changed, that my brother and his family are living out a cycle much too close to the one we witnessed growing up. This year, instead of allowing my father to corner me and complain or spew out insults for hours while I stare into the distance I vow to do something different-- say something, move away, go home. When my brother asks if I want to watch the fireworks with him I will politely decline. I realize now that I don't even enjoy watching them and would much rather spend the night meditating, reading, writing, journaling, or just sitting quietly alone. It's too easy to do things because they are what we've always done, because they are tradition or expected of us. Today I will let go of who I was, who I have always been to my family, and what I would have done in the past.  I will honor who I am now by breaking this cycle, breaking free of habit.

Day 52: Tie and Cuff Links

While my husband was in Iraq, his grandfather passed away suddenly. The funeral was postponed for several months and my husband happened to be home on leave when the services were held at a military cemetery in Massachusetts. He hadn't brought back his Class As so we spent a day driving around to different shops trying to find suit pants that fit his 6'4" 140 pound frame. Men's Warehouse had a seamstress on hand for custom fitting. As he was trying on several different styles the salesman, who might have been working his first day at the store, asked me what the occasion was. I'll bet he was expecting me to say wedding or baptism or something else that would be cause for celebration because his face fell when I said for a funeral. "Oh," he said, "there are a lot of those these days."  He looked so awkward and uncomfortable that I wanted to hug him, but of course I didn't and eventually he just wandered away among the rows of suits.

My husband wanted a solid, Kelly green tie. We looked in half a dozen stores and couldn't find one. He settled on a black tie with red stripes that he pinned down with a gold shamrock tie clip. He wore the black pants, black dress shirt, and black and red-striped tie to the funeral and again to a wedding later that week. The 40 pounds he'd lost in the six months he'd been deployed in Iraq stood out as he cinched the belt around his child-sized waist.

After his two weeks of leave he went back to Iraq. His flight left the airport just as the sun was rising. The corridors were antiseptic and empty. His dusty boots clapped a steady rhythm along the linoleum as we walked through the terminal. The woman behind the counter gave me a boarding pass so that I could follow him to the door of the plane. We embraced behind a large pole, trying to find some privacy in the crowded waiting area. I remember pressing my face into his uniform and wondering if I'd ever see him alive again. I mustered up a smile when his row was called to board and waited until he'd disappeared in the tunnel toward the plane before I allowed tears to slip down my cheeks.

He spent Christmas in Iraq that year. I was shopping for gifts when I found a solid Kelly green tie in Filene's basement. I practically skipped toward the check out counter. As I was leaving the store I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I took it out and checked the caller-ID. It was a long number, more than ten digits in length, it was my husband calling from a satellite phone half-way around the world. My finger was on the answer button a fraction of a second away from pressing firmly down when the phone stopped ringing. I pressed the button again and again even though it was too late. I wandered out into the mall and began walking to circles, slipping quickly into a panic attack.

He left me a voice mail saying that he was leaving on a mission that he didn't know if he'd return alive from. I imagined him dying in a fire-fight without hearing my voice one last time. I started to cry, uncontrollable choking sobs that shook my whole body. I kept walking around in the same small squares of tile in the crowded mall. A man approached me to ask if I was okay. I looked up at him with wild eyes and he flinched, took a step back and left me in distress. I left the mall, got into my car, punched the center console, the dashboard, the steering wheel. I screamed and cried and cursed everything. I got lost on the way home from a nearby restaurant where I bought a gift certificate for my brother and his girlfriend. It took me almost an hour to get home that day when it should have been a fifteen minute trip.

He didn't end up dying on the mission, but it was weeks later before I heard from him. Someone in his unit was killed on Christmas so communication was forbidden on the holiday. I walked around in a daze of worry, never letting my phone leave my side. I perched it on the edge of the bathtub as I showered, kept it tied to my arm with an rubber band at work where I wore skirts without pockets, and held it in my hand on my way home from the train station. I changed my voice mail everyday before getting on the train and losing service, asking him to call back in ten minutes, telling him that I loved him.

The tie, handkerchief, and cuff links pictured above were a gift to my husband from his mother one Christmas before Iraq. When he unwrapped the box and looked inside he half-snorted, half-laughed when he said, "Do they come with a dress shirt?" "No," my mother-in-law said angrily, "don't you have one?" "Nope," he said, pinning the cuff links to his ripped and frayed flannel. She frowned and my brother-in-law who had received the same gift in a different pattern smirked quietly to himself.

My husband left the tie and cuff-links in the box in my bedroom before he left to return to Germany. I kept them, but in the frenzy surrounding his return home on leave from Iraq, I didn't think to pull them out for his grandfather's funeral. I'm sure he wouldn't have worn them anyway, even if I had remembered.  He did wear the green tie at every occasion after that required a suit and tie and each time it reminded me of the day I thought I'd let my last chance to say goodbye slip through my too-slow fingers.

Day 51: American Express Coffee Mug

For the most part, I can say that I have lived without regrets, however, I can think of one thing that I wish I had done differently.

Four months after I had gotten married during spring break, I graduated with a bachelor's degree and a handful of minors. I told everyone that I was either moving to Germany or Georgia to live with my husband. He was stationed in Germany at the time, in a damp and depressing south-western city. Living abroad seemed exotic though, and I thought that I'd ride the train to countries all over Europe and publish a best-selling novel or world-changing tour-de-four of nonfiction so that I'd never have to work another day in retail. Things don't always work out as we plan them.

After he received orders to transfer to Georgia, I decided I would visit him in Germany to get a glimpse of what I'd be missing out on. He would be moving back to the states the first week in July so the only time I could go would be the end of June. That June, the college I had just graduated from would host my then-favorite author--Tim O'Brien-- and poet--Carolyn Forche-- at a writing program open to all. I was torn between taking a trip to Germany and enrolling in the writing program. I chose Germany, reasoning that the writing program would probably happen the following summer. Although the writing program did continue, the two writers never returned as guest faculty. I always wonder what work I would have produced had I been in the presence of such literary greats. Perhaps I would have written a best-selling book after all. Maybe the program would have been enough to keep me writing for a while, even if I didn't publish anything.

Out of school and having quit my job, I spent weeks researching places to see in Germany. I had mapped out a list of must-visit churches, landmarks, monuments, cities. As I walked past the airport partition to where my husband was waiting for me, the spinning, unsteady feeling of motion sickness washed over me and everything came through my blocked ears in muffled whispers. When my husband asked me if I wanted to take a train north or stay in Frankfurt all I could think of was finding a place to sleep off what felt worse than a hangover. Had I known he was only on a two-day pass from post I might have dragged myself toward the nearest train instead.

We spent the night in Frankfurt, then set out to Trier, a place my husband had visited with friends but not one I'd outlined pre-trip. We missed the connecting bus and when my husband asked a local in heavily-accented German where we should go, the blonde-haired blue-eyed twenty-something-year-old smirked at my husband's over-packed military backpack and worn wool blanket and said he didn't know. Most of the Germans we interacted with on our travels were as cold and unwelcoming as the perpetually overcast skies. It rained the entire two weeks I was in Germany and an all-pervading heaviness hung in the air.

After the first three days of exploring, I spent the remainder of my time in Germany on the military base. I had to climb in through the first floor window so that I could spend the night in the barracks. The city surrounding the base was the most depressing place I've ever been. The only thing that existed in abundance was bars and so we spent most of our time drinking. We'd run up hundreds of dollars worth of bar tabs every day, then stumble back to the base and sleep through the morning. By the end of the trip I was thankful I'd be living in Georgia even if all it had to offer was peaches.

We began our journey back home together. Our flights left Germany and stopped over in Georgia before I went back to Massachusetts. He would spend a few weeks getting settled before I moved down with him. I had a long layover in the Atlanta airport and we walked around looking for a place to have lunch. On the way we passed a table where a man was offering free American Express mugs, duffel bags, and magnets. My husband went immediately to the table to take a coffee mug, and filled out an index card with all of his information despite my warnings that he would receive incessant offers from American Express. Even though he didn't even have an address yet, they somehow found us in Georgia and sent weekly advertisements claiming he'd been pre-approved for a credit card. I found the coffee mug today in a box that has been collecting dust at my parents house since before I moved to Georgia. He never once drank from it.

Day 50: Marriage

To apply for a marriage license it took a single piece of paper, birth certificates, and evidence of the marriage as recorded by the Justice of the Peace, as it was in our case.  The fee was waived, a special bonus for military couples. My fiance returned home from Germany six days before the wedding. We went to City Hall five days before the ceremony and received authorization by the morning we recited our vows. The official certificate arrived in the mail shortly after that cold March morning.

To apply for a divorce in the simplest manner possible it took twenty-one legal documents that my husband and I needed to sign simultaneously in the presence of a notary. We will submit the packet of papers to the area court with a $220 fee. We will receive summons for a trial sometime between thirty days and fourteen months after the paperwork had been processed and will have to appear before a judge who will review our case and determine whether or not our marriage really has suffered an "irretrievable breakdown." One of the forms is meant specifically for us to explain what led to the separation. I sat staring at the paper, unable to put into words what transpired between us in the months that led to the day my ex announced he was moving out.  He suggested we blame the government or that we had developed different views of happiness. I pulled something together using the phrase "irreparable rift."

After months of putting off the responsibility of finalizing and making legal the decision he made over a year ago, my ex finally agreed to meet me today to sign the papers. I spent three hours last night sifting through internet websites, piecing together the necessary forms, scanning legal jargon, trying to make sense of the mess of questions and laws. My printer ran out of ink half-way through the twenty-one documents that could not be saved to my computer so I had to retype all of the forms again this morning after buying another small black cartridge. As my printer was spitting out the final sheet, my ex texted me to say he hadn't filled out the single form I'd sent to him, that he couldn't find the paperwork necessary to answer the questions, and he didn't see why it was such a rush to have the papers signed. I had visions of our failed marriage stretching on for another summer, another school year where I wouldn't have time to draft the papers. I explained how long they had taken to fill out, how I'd put today's date on all of the forms, how he'd agreed to do it today, how it had been over a year since he'd moved out. I persisted with patience and he agreed to meet me.

When I woke up this morning humidity was hanging in the air around me and the new yellow blossoms on my zucchini plants were opened wide to drink the first rays of the sun. By afternoon dark clouds covered the sky and dropped drenching rain to the earth below. A tornado warning was issued in a state that rarely sees the whirling winds.

My husband arrived at my back door, soaked in sweat, wearing a faded black shirt with a gaping hole in the right armpit and pale jeans that he got as hand-me-downs in high school. "It's fuckin' hot out there," he said, slamming his summer scally cap to my kitchen table and striding over to the paper towel roll so that he could sop up the sweat dripping down his face and neck. I tried to talk him through the papers, explaining what I'd filled in so that he could voice his objections. He was hardly listening and kept starting unrelated conversations.

He offered to drive us to the local bank where we'd have them notarized. When we were together I drove everywhere since his reckless pedal pushing and corner clipping sent me instantly into a panic attack. I agreed to let him drive the mile down the road knowing that he'd be less prone to anger if he could blast the AC and music of his choice. I clasped my hands together in my lap and silently repeated a mantra as he sped down the street. I glanced in his backseat that was overflowing with boxes, workout equipment, and fishing gear laid out across the two rows of fold down seats. He caught by backwards gaze and said, "Shut up. That's why I bought a truck."

At the bank we entered the metal detector protected doors one at a time. The green light took too long to flick on while I was trapped between the glass doors and I silently started scanning the contents of my purse, wondering if there was something there I shouldn't be carrying. I pushed through with relief when the red light went out. I turned to watch my husband come through behind me. The men behind the glass office partitions glanced up at us and looked back at their desks, trying to appear busy.  In high school I was attracted by his careless way of dressing. As an adult I'd silently wish he would dress up on occasion rather than always wearing worn-out hole filled t-shirts and jeans. When we were apartment shopping in better neighborhoods than we'd grown up in I asked him to dress nice so that we wouldn't be turned away immediately. He ironed creases down the center of his ripped jeans. I never again asked him to dress up.

I could tell the notary in the bank had already made up his mind about us before we walked through the bullet-proof glass into his corner office. He watched me critically as I unclipped the papers and spread them out before us. I pointed carefully to the form, indicating to my husband where he should sign.  As I dragged the pen across the line to sign my name, I felt like beaming and busting into tears simultaneously. What a relief to be rid of this marriage forever; how devastating to see something my life had once depended on come to an end.

I handed the form to the notary who barely glanced at them before handing them back, a smug smile spreading across his face as he said, "You've done this wrong." "I don't understand what you mean," I said, feeling my husband's temper rising beside me. "You both signed the form," he said. "We're supposed to," I answered. He lifted the sheet again, brought it closer to his face, then placed it back in front of me. "You were supposed to sign here and print your name there; he signed where your name should be." I breathed in, something I've learned to do when I need to speak from a place of calm and reason. "We are signing a joint petition," I explained. "I am Petitioner A," I said pointing to the words below the line I'd signed, "and he is Petitioner B. We've signed where it indicates that we should." Seeing his mistake, he lifted the sheet again, muttered a soft, "Oh," and continued to fill them in without speaking. I pretended to be engrossed in the other forms to avoid my husband's gaze. He touched my arm to get my attention. Our eyes met and we exchanged words without speaking. I was thankful he hadn't audibly voiced his insults toward the man.

It didn't take more than two minutes for the forms to be signed and for the man to hand them back to us with parting wishes for a happy holiday. I slowly and deliberately slipped them back into the gold paper clip and manila envelope, folding down the clasp at the top. My husband stood impatiently beside me as I closed the envelope, just shy of bulldozing through my chair to leave the office. We walked out together and climbed back into his truck. By then the clouds had grown darker, more threatening, and the winds were whipping through the trees. He came back into my home to look for something he thought he'd left behind that he found in his back pocket. We spoke for a few minutes longer, a conversation meant to keep up appearances although no one was looking. When he left, I locked the door behind him, glanced up at the clouds on the verge of bursting, and took a deliberate breath in.