i like my weird perspective; my ability to see things that aren’t things, and notice expressions that are barely there on the face of the person next to me. i have an uncanny ability to see hidden objects in movies, or ghosts in the window of an old house. most people just look at me with a weird look on their face when i tell them about these things. “off to the Funny Farm with you”, they seem to be saying to me with their wild, surprised expressions. just because i saw a face in a tree? or claim that i have faeries in my room playing Yahtzee?
well even the small of faith and linear of mind should be able to see that i’ve found a mummy lying right next to one of the characters from Nightmare Before Christmas!!
I wake up naked a lot. I suppose that could be pretty hot, if one imagined that I’m waking up nude from a long night of sex. But I’ve been single for about a bajillion years, and there’s no one sleeping in my bed at night except me. And me, and me, and me. No, I wake up naked because of my “others”.
I used to sleep walk when I was a kid, which I thought was rather exotic and exciting. This potentially dangerous situation wasn’t dangerous at all, compared to what went on in my waking hours, and I chalked this wacky habit up to me being an oddball dramatic type. Some mornings I awoke to find my head at the foot of the bed, and my feet on my pillow. Days that I spent the night at my grandmother’s house, I awoke on the living room couch. It seemed I just got up and meandered about. I talked in my sleep as well, told to me by my mother, who remembers me trying to drive a car in my sleep when I was five. I told her I was trying to get to a dance recital, which must have been my older sisters.
My favorite weird nighttime sleep activity seems to be stripping. I have a habit of waking up shirtless. Or more often, just in my panties. Or better still, in completely different clothing than I started off in. I’d go to bed in my jammies, like cotton men’s pajamas, and wake up in a pair of boxers and a tee. Or maybe I’d go to bed in a silk nightie, only to find myself in a sweatshirt and bottoms in the morning. And there are times that I actually rummaged through the closet to get these items, because I know they weren’t easily accessible. I’ve taken to laying out several options on my bed, and just sleeping next to them like I have a ‘clothing boyfriend’. The options lie against the wall, just in case. It’s easier this way. I find I have less unexplained bruises in the morning from tripping over stuff in the dark, or banging my elbows on the closet door when my eyes are shut.
I have one particular “other” who seems to get the most enjoyment out of this. This as of yet unidentified personality gets incredibly hot when the rest of everyone is fine, and she starts pulling articles of clothing off the body. Off comes the sweater, off with the socks. She hates anything constricting on the neck line, so if I’m wearing a crew neck tee shirt at the time she comes out, I can pretty much kiss that shirt goodbye. She’ll rip the neck wide open, because it’s “choking her”. So when I wake up in the nude, I know whose been sleeping in my bed. I imagine she got hot in the middle of the night and just started peeling layers of clothing off. Although, it could be that she is a closet stripper personality, because I’ve always had a thing for pole dancing.
I think I can blame the missing bra on her as well. I had a favorite cute bra go missing for months at a time, and I couldn’t figure out where I’d lost it. I mean, I’ve lost a number of things in my life – my old Styx album, “Paradise Theatre”; my antique cigarette container that I used as a lipstick case; that year of my life in third grade – but losing a bra isn’t the same as misplacing your keys. It’s not like you accidentally set down your bra on a counter at Taco Bell. For the life of me I couldn’t find the thing, and then one day I discovered it hiding underneath my mattress. Like, wedged between the two mattresses. One of my kooky spiritual new age fluffy bunny personalities likes to blame this on the faeries; convinced that the fey came and made off with my bra for some reason. I think it must have been hot head, slinking out of the clothes when the rest of us were asleep. But seriously, did she have to stick it between the mattresses? To what end?
So yeah, it’s a little weird and funny, sometimes. Having this life I have. But for some guy in the world that finally decides to date me, I hope he might consider my spontaneous stripping disorder more convenient than annoying.
No no, this is of the G variety, until I wake up and get scared and start using R rated words.
It’s just that I’ve been hearing noises.
A scratching at the door, fingernails in the walls, scurry here scurry there. I guess we might have winter mice lurking about.
It’s scared the poop out of me, I admit. It’s no fun waking up in the middle of a good dream about KARL URBAN only to find that I’m crazy, because there really isn’t any little creature in my room. And then the idea of mice walking around while I sleep only conjures up images of 70’s horror movies, and then I’m awake all night.
But mice would only explain so much. The scratching, sure.
But what about all the other things?
What about this morning at 3.00 a.m., while I am safely walking the streets of slumberland, only to hear little tiny faeries playing Fairy Yahtzee in my room. I hear that familiar shake, shake, shake of the magical canister full of dice. I suppose it could be that the Faeries are playing Craps, but I think the sound would be different in that case. More swearing. And certainly less rattling.
I wake up in a shock and look frantically around my room, though of course it’s dark and I can’t see a thing. And while I would love to catch the Faeries in the act of a Full House, I’m still a bit afraid. Why are they playing board games in my room? Why now? Why wasn’t I invited?
Now if you are an adult (unlike some of us) you might want to use logic to chase away this Faerie gambling story. You might say, denelle, couldn’t it have been the ice in your huge freezer cup of water that repositioned itself as it settled in, and just SOUNDED like the roll of little dice? To which I would reply: SHUT UP. NO ONE ASKED YOU.
I mean of course, it can always be the practical thing. It could always be freezing rain hitting my window, or the heater blowing a straggling piece of loud and noisy cellophane wrapping across my floor. I suppose it’s more likely than goblins rappelling off my closet door, or house elves coming to clean for me (certainly more likely than that, since I know what the state of my room is). Still, there is the question in my mind…what is REALLY going on at night?
Is the house really settling? The house finally came to the realization – in the middle of the night – that maybe it doesn’t get to be a spa after all. It has to finally accept this sad truth and decides to do this at night? Why? Why not in the middle of the day, when no one is here to witness it sobbing about what it could have been in it’s glory days?
Or is it really the wind crying? Because the wind has it so bad. The adult explanations of the bumps in the night aren’t any more convincing to me than the children versions, which include fun things like the Boogey Man in the Closet, the Thing Under the Bed, Things That Go Bump in the Night, and of course gambling imps.
So whatever, bad weather, nocturnal creatures running around the house, or dice wielding winkies, it all adds up to the same thing;
I’m not getting any sleep. I’m obviously going to have to start drinking again.
1.6.10 4:16 am