In some ways, I am grateful for majoring in English in college: analyzing literature helped me understand and articulate nuance. I just don’t, or can’t, apply it to myself. As my mother succumbed to her own mental illness, she’d call me “the bad daughter” and my sister “the good daughter.” Instead of understanding that this is an immaterial distinction, and also just a fucked up thing to say, I internalized it: I am the bad daughter. A bad person. If I am bad, I cannot be good. I wish I was good, that I could be good! 

At the bottom of the stairs is a small gray and yellow grocery store. Even the term “grocery store” might be more generous: it is the size of a gas station, maybe. Immediately upon entering, one comes face to face with a cold-case of green vegetables. A slight turn to the side reveals the rest of the small store and its sometimes-crowded, sometimes-empty shelves.

Walking from my dorm to Blockbuster Video, I paused in front of the small Catholic church/student center. Should I become a nun? My great-aunt was a nun and she seemed to be doing alright. Clearly I was unlovable, so why not? Because I was taking a film class, I went to Blockbuster a lot, so this internal conversation happened a few times a week.

Do not take naps! If you absolutely must take a nap, it should be no longer than 45 minutes. Thirty is even better. Avoid a full sleep cycle. And if you have made the horrendous decision to nap, try to time it so it is approximately eight or nine hours before bedtime.

Like many girls my age, I dabbled in Wicca in high school. My parents weren’t particularly religious, and I considered myself an atheist in middle school. But it was hard to deny the appeal of the Goddess. American culture is unkind to teen girls.

Here is a dispatch from Facebook, about my first CBT-I appointment in July 2024. This was an hour-long intake appointment, giving the doctor an overview of my history.

Even if I hadn’t slept much before that, I slept okay. I could sleep on pretty much any surface, and remain undisturbed by noise and light. But after a few months of him, of this, the slightest noise would wake me. Falling asleep became much harder: always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was worse to his next girlfriend and I don’t know where he is now. Stumbling through a hazy half-awake twilight, I hope.

I started CBT-I in July 2024, and finished in January 2025. The whole point of this blog is sharing my experiences, but I will TLDR: The therapy helped me immensely, but it was incredibly difficult to enact. What I’ve learned has improved my quality of life, but most days I still have to fight to do it.

These days, I get home from work and I’m just supposed to be awake all afternoon, instead of napping. But instead of excitement that I finally have time, I just feel overwhelmed. Now the pressure is too high. I had reasons for being a disappointment, and now I don’t. If I’m a failure it really is my own fault. Cool.

Later, much later, in grad school, I latched on to the idea that everything we do is performative. Every outfit is a costume, every facial expression a mask. I could more easily compartmentalize and just survive. That steady media diet led to a steady feeling of always being in a narrative, both observer (of myself) and observed (by myself). Somewhere under all those layers was a person, but mainly I was a ghost.

We all now knew how to be safe in a fire. What a great day! Until the screaming began.

The adults chuckled over their coffee as she continued. “The spaceship crashed in Kansas.”

Which came first, the music or the misery? Some songs that have haunted me for over twenty years.

Once I hit puberty, I became a bad sleeper.

Various remedies and treatments might help for a brief time, yet I remained tired. In 2024, I sought treatment for my insomnia, and I started writing about it, too. Please join me on my quest to just get some rest.