"I look at the clock again, it’s 3.15am and I’m getting closer to the moment when I’m going to have to medicate or resign myself to staying awake. Now adding to my copious preoccupations: what do I have to do in the morning? Can I afford to be exhausted or should I resort to the cornucopia of drugs and sleep aids crammed into my bedside drawer? While I attempt to follow the cognitive behavioural therapy advice I’ve been given and count my breaths – five in, five out – to restore my equilibrium and compartmentalise the turmoil, my husband snores deafeningly beside me.
He’s deep in a contented sleep that not even the alarm clock can halt, but if he knew how close to homicide this nightly inequity takes me, he wouldn’t be so relaxed. The tedium of my thoughts is frequently alleviated by a switch to murderous intent as my addled, sleep-deprived brain imagines how easily I could slide the pillow over his face and banish his noisy presence permanently."
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