A Letter to Insomnia

Dear Insomnia, 

The older I get, the more I understand you. The way you are able to exploit the intensity of my mind and its proclivity for darkness is less of a mystery to me now than it once was. As I’ve begun to understand myself and the world around me, I’ve gotten better at fighting my worst impulses. But you know they will always be a part of me. 

And so though your visits are less frequent, I know better than to try to fight you. I know all too well that deep breaths and melatonin are no match for the frenetic electricity of my nervous system. I know I must accept the crushing weight of the world you place on my shoulders; the horrors of modernity in all their subtle but hellish torment that you bring so close.

Your visits paralyze me. I am a prisoner to the mind you trap me in. I know that my fears are irrational, that I am catastrophizing, but I cannot slow my heart rate, untighten my chest, or soothe the nerves inflamed and fried by the turbulent disorder that accompanies your visits. I cannot stop the dysregulated thoughts, ease the pit in my stomach, or nurse the weakness in my bones. I know you feed me lies, but your torment is just the same. When you are with me, I am the most lonely and scared person in this huge, terrifying world.

And yet, while I still fear you, I’ve made peace with you. I understand now you are a consequence of my humanness. The “terrible passions of humanity,” as Vincent van Gogh once wrote, that often creep up on us at night — the uneasiness, the uncertainty, the sorrow — are not new, nor do they exist in isolation. To live in such an extraordinary world is to feel its pulse in all its divinity and horror. To experience the depth of the starry night is to be both tormented and inspired. When we are haunted by its oppressive vastness and tension, we must not lose sight of how deeply beautiful it is, too.

Despite your efforts to convince me otherwise, I know I am not alone when you bring me to this place. Many have visited before me, and many will come after. In the words of Andrew Hozier-Bryne, “All the things yet to come are the things that have passed.” We endure through the hours of darkness, like we always have.

Yours truly, 

Jenna