I’ve tried every position of my legs on this bed – horizontal, vertical, diagonal. The fan off and on. I’ve placed the sheet over my face inhaling and exhaling. I’ve laid naked with the breeze on my skin, worrying about peeping Toms. I’ve wiggled my toes and rocked my body back and forth. I’ve rubbed my chest, I’ve patted my belly. I’ve talked to myself out loud: “You can’t do anything about it now, just focus on the here and now. Think about the sound of the wind in the trees, the taste in your mouth, the touch of the pillow on your face. Be here, right now.”

There’s a noise outside. It distracts me from my failing breaths and the hours that I’ve been awake. From the window, I can’t see anything out of the ordinary. My housemate is asleep. I decide the dusty cricket bat by the front door will be a sufficient companion to accompany me outside, to investigate.

My feet are deserters – they were restless in bed and now they’re claiming fatigue. I stamp up and down on the cold tiles of the laundry before opening the back door. If I’m going outside where there’s potential danger, I need my “all terrain vehicles” to be ready for action. Adam always calls them “all terrain vehicles”. It’s adorable but also lame as fuck – he has the worst Dad jokes. I wish he was here.

The door is hard to open and impossible to do so quietly. A loud creak alerts the entire neighborhood to my presence. I hold it open, the light spilling around my shape onto the verandah. I wait for more noise. I wait for acknowledgement. It does not come.

I step outside and look around lazily. I’m disappointed there’s nothing out here but my Christmas gift hammock swaying softly in the breeze. I stretch it out and carefully sit and swing.

I am alone with my insomnia. I am alone with my torturous, relentless thoughts. Morning will never come.