Some readers may have noticed that I didn’t share a post last week. I’m on the upswing now I think, but I was pretty depressed last week due to a confluence of reasons, not the least of which is my current struggle with sleep apnea (I think. I haven’t officially been diagnosed yet, but the doctor seemed pretty sure). I wrote this reflection last week while I was feeling anxious about my sleep difficulties, but I decided not to post it because it felt a little morbid. I think some of my best creative work can come from personal darkness, but I don’t think it means very much unless I’m able to transmute it into something positive, and at the time of writing, I wasn’t there yet. And while my situation is still developing, I’ve seen a specialist and I feel more optimistic after seeing a doctor and mapping out a timeline to treat it. With that in mind, I wanted to share what I wrote:

My eyes snap open in the timeless night, and I feel a weight pushing down on my chest. There’s a moment of pressure before my mind wakes up and decodes the signals my body has been crying in my sleep: I can’t breathe. The weight feels so heavy on my lungs I have to sit upright before I can gasp for air. In an instant the pressure subsides in my chest. My partner stirs, and turns on the dim orange glow of the lamp that hangs above our heads.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

My heart is pounding, pumping packets of platelets to the asphyxiated corners of my body. My mouth is so dry; I nod to let him know that I’m fine before wordlessly reaching for the cup of water sitting by my bed.

I’ve always had trouble breathing through my nose. At sleepovers and in dorms my friends would tease me for my loud snoring. It’s hereditary; both my parents snore too. A year ago my partner introduced me to nasal strips that I wear at night to help. I feel a marked improvement in my breathing when I use them, but they’re not the cheapest, and even when using them I still stop breathing sometimes.

The worst part is that the result is that my sleep isn’t restful. There are mornings when I wake up exhausted. To feel well rested I need to set aside nine to twelve hours of sleep. I catch myself falling asleep midday on days I’m not working, and it reminds me a lot of the depression naps I took in 2018. At the time my mental health was in poor condition, and I slept for days without leaving my room for the short term relief of not thinking depressive thoughts while sleeping. I’ve come to associate this sleepless exhaustion with the nihilism I think I was internalizing then; the sensation of restlessness triggers a depressive response in me.

My sleepiness was a source of sensory comfort when I was younger, but more recently sleeping has become a point of anxiety. My partner has expressed concerns that I stop breathing in my sleep, or that he has to roll me over in my sleep before I unconsciously gasp for air. It sounds frightening.

I feel his blanket push up against me as I settle back into the bed, propping me on my side. I snuggle between him and the plush IKEA shark squished between my arms in front of me. I feel the warmth of his body radiating heat on my back. Part of what scares me about these breathing problems is that I don’t want my partner to worry about me. I feel so lucky to have someone who’s willing to keep an eye on me, even when I’m sleeping, to make sure that I’m breathing normally. In the morning, I have a doctor’s appointment to get a referral for a sleep clinic. I don’t like the idea of having to wear something on my face while going to bed, but I don’t want my sleeping to be a problem for anyone. I hope my case is able to move along quickly.

I squeeze my plush shark, my arms wrapped around it like a floatation device, and return to restlessness.