I’m not sleeping.
My bed has become a museum piece- yellow sheets bloodstained a bit from mishaps involving my psoriasis. Dark brown wood bed frame surrounded by bare walls and a pale sisal mat on the floor. One light, a library lamp with green shade giving the warm colors another warm inviting glow.
And a CPAP.
Put me in it, and I’m staring at the ceiling, staring through the doorway, staring at the walls, sometimes scratching or slapping, furiously hunting for any sign of a bedbug, then lying down again.
The fireworks are in my brain- the old anxiety is back again, now more spry and youthful than ever. Fears about money, where to live, how to be. People leaving, betrayals, positives turn to negatives, etc., etc.
But if it were an exhibit, you wouldn’t know it. Only my bedbug hysteria would show it. Just another museum piece to look at, murmur about, and walk away.