Seems that writing about feelings has proven to help chronically screwed up people — like me — so here I go again.

A recent article in the New York Times caught my eye and re-motivated me to write even more about my brain injury and how I feel as a result. Call me a crystal-powered-new-age-commie hippie, but, as I have said in previous posts, I am willing to try pretty much anything at this point.

So what feelings shall I write about today? Given the crappiness of last night, I'll go with the feelings I have about of sleep.

Think about your bed for a moment. Think about how when you first crawl in between the sheets they go from cool to warm, as they absorb your body heat. Think about the soft pillows and how you position them to get everything just right for your night of slumber. Think about the feeling of release you get, the sense of finally just letting the day go, being able to truly escape for awhile (they say sleeping is no different from dying, except, of course, that you wake up, pretty big difference, but you get the idea). Now think about the person you share the bed with, if you are lucky enough to have someone who does this with you. Go ahead, get a little lewd in your thoughts if you want to, it's a bed for god's sake.

Now scratch all that and think about not being able to get comfortable, no position quite does it and sleep comes as a manifestation of defeat not renewal. And when you wake up? Nothing has changed. The first thing you feel is not grogginess, recharged, whatever, no, you feel just like you did when you went to bed, probably worse, because your sleep has been disrupted by your discomforts.

Sadly, the second description pretty fits me to a T1. No position really works for me anymore. On my back, dizzy. On my front, dizzy. Side, dizzy. Pillow against the front of my head, hurts, the side, hurts, the back of my head, hurts. Legs are cold and wet feeling, neck is stiff (had a bit of a whiplash during my fall).

This is a tough situation to be in, as you can imagine, but not solely for the reason you might expect, which is that sleep should feel good. No, another reason — a deeper reason, really — is that sleep and rest are things you should look forward to. They should be experienced as a welcome and well earned break from a relentless world. When you crawl into bed, it should not be with reluctance or resignation. Even when you simply sink into an easy chair, it should feel like a reward.

These days I dread rest and sleep. When I sink into the couch or crawl into bed, I think to myself, "Well, here I am again, another afternoon shot, another evening gone, more of life's precious moments wasted." This happened to me this morning. I woke up and I felt awful. Hard to explain exactly what was wrong — sort of a headache, touch of nausea, dizzier than usual — but something was very wrong, so I cancelled the breakfast I'd planned with my dad and went back to sleep. Several hours later, I finally got up, ratted around a bit, felt better, but not great, and now here I am again in bed. Oh joy.

This post is getting kind of long, so I'll stop. But, having written down all these feelings, I have to ask myself, "Do you feel better, punk? Well, do ya?" And you know what? I do, kind of.

In fact, I think writing out these feelings might have given me an idea for a song: "I wish my bed would die in its sleep."

1) What the hell does fit to a T even mean? Where did this expression come from? The answer is here.