I think of myself as a good sleeper. Give me a large book and a horizontal position, and I could fall asleep strapped to the top of a bullet train. Sleep has been a constant ally, a friend. When I was a teen, it was a refuge. I used to pray for sleep; its temporary oblivion was a welcome respite from anxiety and obsessive thoughts. It was a pause, not a death but close enough to it. Every time I fell asleep, there was a chance of resurrection, to wake up new.
My girlfriend, Allison, however, does not think I’m a good sleeper. She knows the truth. At night, I’m thrashing around and screaming. Occasionally, it sounds like my breathing stops. Worst of all for her, I snore. Badly. She’s shown me a video of it, and it’s horrifying: my thin, wheezing inhales are interrupted by a wrenching tear of a noise. It sounds like someone ripping a carpet in half inside a cave. It sounds like a Hans Zimmer score. It’s awful.
