De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

I’ve had a bit of writer’s block recently. To put it succinctly, I just haven’t been able to spell out exactly what has been going on in my world without some trepidation about the consequences. It’s the fear of hurting those who I care about. Do I dare tell the truth?

It hasn’t all been bad. I’m sleeping in my own bed again, which I haven’t done for months. Don’t worry, my therapist also looked at me strangely when I said those words as well. There’s no deep terrible childhood secret. My couch felt safe. I can sleep on a couch because it keeps me one step ahead of myself. I simply don’t feel vulnerable or out of place there.

It’s like your favorite frumpy sweater. It swallows you whole and yet you don’t have to share it with anyone. There are no messy emotions or discord to throw you off center. It’s protective and very cushiony. It won’t sap your emotions to satisfy it’s own devices. It won’t try to manipulate you into doing something that you don’t want to do. It absorbs the weight of the day and asks nothing in return.

You can’t always follow your heart unless you go it alone. And I prefer the safety and company of my own thoughts to the controlling emotional demands of others. The quickest way to alienate me is to tell me how I’m suppose to change myself to fit into your world. I am too old to “reinvent” myself so that I’m acceptable to others.

Still my insomnia wears on. Although I’ve discovered that there is a time when the city does quiet down. I know this because suddenly my television sounds louder without any ambient noise to compete for my ears. I turn the volume down and wait for the next hour to roll by. Sometimes I slip deeply into dreamland, other times I just end up petting my cat and enviously watch her close her eyes, purr and sleep.

It’s also hard for me to fall asleep unless I play the same four Harry Potter movies in the background. I know all the dialogue by heart. This is my routine. Like setting the alarm for 6 a.m. even if I know I’m not getting up until 8:30. My friend Sara hates these movies because the line between good and evil is so black and white. It’s precisely that lack of grey that gives me inner peace. My tightly wound habits reassures the child inside that I know what is coming up next, and it is all going to be okay.

All this may seem like a just another uninspired post by a very average woman living a bland, vanilla life. Maybe I do need a change, but today sleeping in my own bed is just enough, knowing that the man who is responsible for her death will spend the rest of his natural life in jail. I can’t say anymore. Please don’t ask me.