I Can't Sleep

131 essay I Can’t Sleep Emily Bernard It’s 1 a.m. I lie in my bed in the dark, my heart beating fast. I knew this would be a hard night; I got to bed by midnight, but the interior stream of words never stopped. I took drugs—both pharmaceutical and herbal (this is Vermont)—hop­ ing they would quiet the flow and allow me to sleep. They didn’t work; the stream rushed into a river. Phrases and sentences propel me upright. I turn on the light and scratch them out quickly, trying not to wake John, my husband, who sleeps soundly beside me. I turn the light back off. Can I sleep now? I plead with the dark­ ness. No. I drag myself out of bed and down two flights of stairs to 132 | Emily Bernard the guest bedroom. I am afraid to be alone with my thoughts, but desperation overwhelms my fear. I take my iPad with me; it’s less populated with social media platforms than my phone. I can’t find the app for the flashlight. I keep tapping on my iPad to keep the light going on the screen. Tap, tap, tap. My ankles hurt; I limp down the stairs, leaning on the bannister. It may be general stiffness or something more serious, like plantar fasciitis, but I’m too afraid to go to my doctor right now. I received an email about their social-­ distancing protocols that I allowed to be swept away with the deluge of other information saturating my inbox. I turn on the light in the downstairs bathroom and stare in the mirror at my graying hair, untended by my hairdresser for more than three months. My twins are growing up and I feel myself growing old. The childlike joy that writing used to awaken in me is gone, replaced by a dull nothing. I am not writing out of pleasure; I am writing like a robot, fighting to be counted as human. Drip, drip, drip. The words won’t stop. It is 2:30 a.m. More notes. I put down the notebook I keep on the side table and tap on my iPad, raising it from sleep. Maybe the color and vibrancy of a movie or a television show will cheer me up. I scroll through the offerings. So many dramas about violence against men and women, black death and female agony. I remember that a new episode of my favorite show, Insecure, is available on one of my streaming services. A portrait of black life in Los Angeles, its first seasons included subplots about its characters’ confrontations with white supremacy. But the current season features only nonwhite characters. They are beautiful and young, black and Asian, gay and straight. My throat tightens as I watch the characters moving on the city streets, free of fears of contagion, of police violence. Simply living human lives in before times. There is a lot of talk about food, and several scenes involving sumptuous dishes (crispy squash flowers, garlic prawns, ribeye steak). I realize that I am hungry, but I’m too tired to go upstairs to the kitchen. More than food, anyway, I am hungry for those city streets and other streets just like them in Brooklyn, New Haven, and Nashville, places where I feel free and I Can’t Sleep | 133 that at various times in my life I have called home. In my neighbor­ hood in Vermont, I am black, female, and alone. After the episode is over, I toss and turn. 3:30. Only two hours, I decide, before I can get out of bed without feeling like I’ve given up. The sun will have risen, bringing with it a sense of hope. I resist tuning into any newsfeeds on my iPad; I don’t want to start the day feeling haunted by another person’s death by way of the virus or the police. My house is full of people and pets, but I am just as alone inside as I am outside in the streets of my neighborhood. I am trapped in language, a ceaseless ongoing monologue. I am trapped in unpleasant...