Lately sleep has been somewhat of a white rabbit for me. And I’m tired of chasing it. Heck, I’m even tired of laying down in a bed, waiting for that stupid little rabbit to stop it’s incessant running.
Bottom line, I’m just plain tired.
It seems that I am no better at fighting off the demons now than when I was twelve years old.True, these demons have changed drastically over the years. I think I’d almost welcome one of the green, garish looking little fellows I’d imagined to be lurking just under the bed, or if not there than definitely in my closet, instead of what I am battling now. In comparison, the demons of my childhood look almost friendly.
Almost.
And then there’s that other difference.
The one that had everything to do with just running up to my parents’ bedroom, blanket trailing behind me like some kind of hobo’s bridal train, and snuggling as close to my parents’ bed as humanly possible. I’m talking feeling the box spring. Taking in the smell of their bed clothes, the smell of safety.
And if it wasn’t there, it was most certainly ending up in the same room as one of my brother’s, probably Jonathan. I’d let him think that I was the scared one, being the younger of us and the girl, but really, both of us were relieved to have the comfort of each other. The demons faded quickly once we glimpsed the shape of the other one, huddled on the floor of whichever room we’d park ourselves for the long night.
I like the simplicity of that.
The tangibleness of it.
I was alone, now I am not.
I was afraid, now I am not.
And yes, I know that I am not alone now, but Over the Rhine says it so well:
This is lonely, but never alone.
And yes, I know there is God who I can run to, but if he has a bed, I’ve yet to find it and I’ve certainly never mashed myself up against his box spring. I’ve never seen him huddled on the floor beside my bed, inexplicably drawing comfort from my presence while from his, I find the courage to face the night.
I guess sometimes I miss the physicality of running, truly running, away from what I fear and into a safe place. I miss things being as simple as moving away from the window that you’re pretty sure you just glimpsed someone or something glimpsing you.
I love the metaphor, true; and I believe in it. I have to, really.
But I miss the thing itself sometimes.
