Plank of Reason

Insomniac

I really don't need this today. It's bad enough I'm getting it from both sides: my mother and Coach. I can't fight with Andy too.

"It feels like you’re pigeon-holing me into this role of Nagging Fiancé,” He says, quite reasonably, as we walk hand-in-hand towards the entrance of the tube.

I have to pay extra attention to what Andy's saying. Not because the conversation is particularly demanding, but because it’s officially day four without sleep, and even simple tasks like getting dressed require gargantuan effort.

“I’m sorry,” I say, which has turned into somewhat of a catchphrase. So much so that I’m planning on using it as the epitaph on my gravestone:

                                                                      Here lies Jill Harrison.

                                                                       8th December 1993

                                                                        20th August 2021

                                                                          She was sorry.

Andy sighs, “I don’t want you apologise. I’m just expressing how I feel. What’s going on isn’t your fault, obviously.”

He stops where he stands. Since I’m attached to him, emotionally and physically, I stop too. There’s a bit of a height difference between us. He’s below average and I’m what my Irish mother affectionately describes as “a big lanky noodle of a yolk”. Whenever we walk in Main Street – especially when we cross the road – people say we look more like a parent and child than a couple. Funny considering I’m definitely the less mature one in our dynamic.   

There’s nothing comical about the concern in Andy's eyes.

“Talk to me,” He pleads, “How was last night?”

“Brilliant,” I nod, “I finished a matchstick diorama of the Eiffel Tower, did some meditation… Oh, and applied to that PHD in astrophysics. Amazing what you can accomplish when you have eight extra hours of free time.”

He pulls down at my hand, yanking me into a stooping position.

“Stop using humour to deflect. Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”

I hesitate. Now that I’m at Andy's eye-level, it’s harder to bullshit. Having a sensitive fiancé seems great and paper; the sneaky bottle of wine in the evenings, the shared penchant for Netflix Romcoms, the endless - and I do mean endless - post-work gossip sessions. But sometimes I wish he were a bit less dramatic.     

Frankly, I’m a little pissed that he’s curated this moment. What does he want me to say? That I didn’t sleep? He knows I didn’t sleep. If he can’t deduce it from the bags under my eyes - which have gotten substantial I’d need to check them in before boarding an aircraft – then she should bloody know by now I’m avoiding the question. 

I have enough self-awareness to know I’m being overly irritable. But here's a fun fact: irritability is a side-effect of exhaustion. And I’m getting tired of doing all the emotional heavy lifting for everyone else in my life.    

“There you go again. Zoning out like a zombie!” Andy exclaims, snatching his hand from mine like it bit him.

I can't help it. I see red, "You know what Andy, here’s a crazy idea: maybe I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe talking about it would actually have the opposite of the desired effect. Maybe it would do me harm."