A Bedtime Tradition

I am lying on my right side. Mike is reading, and over my left shoulder his bedside light glows soft orange. My right hand is under my cheek. My left hand rests on my right bicep and my left elbow rests on my hip. My eyes are closed. I am going to sleep.

My left foot is an obtuse angle to my shin. I move my ankle, and my heel touches Mike's knee. I stretch out my leg, but my knee won't extend far enough to release the building tension in my calf. I pull my legs back up, and now my knees are touching each other. My left leg is bent up. Too high. My right leg is bent up. Perfect.

My right wrist needs to rotate. I pull it from under my cheek and now my fingers need to be extended. I grip the air. I ignore the growing fear in my chest. I am ok. I am ok. I breathe in and out and now the angle of my left arm is too acute.

I lie on my back. "Everything ok?" No. "Yes, I'm just getting anxious." The blanket is too heavy on my toes and my wrist still needs to rotate. I flex my calves and I can feel the fear spreading to my shoulders. I can breathe. I can still breathe.

I can't close my eyes tight enough. I can feel my contact lenses, and I can't blink hard enough to stop my irises from itching. My arms are too close to my body.

This is anxiety. I close my fists, and I open my fists again. I can feel my fingers and I feel my toes and my hair is tickling on the back of my neck and everything else is tight, tight, and I am afraid that I won't ever fall asleep because as much as I try to forget it the angle of my legs is still all wrong and I am squeezing my eyes tight and they are itching.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I will wake up in the morning and I will have slept. And tomorrow night, I will have another chance to make it on my first try. For now, I only have to slow down my heart and pull my hair back and then my knees will be right and it will be ok.

Breathe in.

I am ok.

Breathe out.

I am ok.