my sleep could be better

I used to be an expert sleeper--the kind of near-psychopath that could lay down in one position and, without shifting, fluffing, or tugging, feel my heart rate and breathing slow, my muscles relax, and everything give in to my own circadian rhythm. 

Maybe it was because I was a teenager, and had no sense of knowing thoughts that burn through you. Thoughts linger, multiply, and amplify when you get older. Lately, my dreams have become so vivid that I am not really sure I am even falling asleep anymore. An old lover of mine used to say that he would hold his hand an inch or so away from my nose and mouth until he felt the steady, syncopated wisps of warm air that confirmed I was still alive. (This was one of his many observations about sharing a bed with me. He once said that we needed to get a bigger bed to fit me, him, and all the crumbs my late-night snacking left behind--I have since stopped this habit after spending my hard-earned adult money on cream-colored, 600 thread count eucalyptus sheets. They're even more delicious.) Looking back, I am not surprised my ex-lover thought I was dead; I was commuting daily on NJ Transit back and forth between New Brunswick, NJ and Manhattan for a rigorous internship, recklessly spending my small stipend on after work pyramid scheme fitness classes and expensive cocktails, researching for my senior thesis, and glamorizing the too-busy-to-eat work "ethic." My eyes were glazed over most of the time those days. 

My dissent into sleep hell was gradual. About three years ago, I had a health problem that made it difficult for me to sleep on both my back or stomach. To balance myself on my side, I adopted a technique I had seen advertised to pregnant women involving placing one pillow in-between your thighs, and a second embraced against your chest (the latter pillow placement ticked-off a different boyfriend, who said that it made him feel left out. I stopped cuddling pillows during that relationship.) 

TBC