Tonight is my first night sleeping alone since the attack.  There are no nurses poking me every few hours, no electrodes at vigil making sure I’m alive; no girlfriend in my room/bed.  There are people in the house, upstairs.  I’m not doing this entirely on my own.

That said, I’d be lying if I said the prospect wasn’t slightly terrifying and that I didn’t feel more than a little like the little kid I used to be; the one who likely spawned my insomnia/sleep troubles later on in life.  The one who lay awake all night in mortal terror of the concept of the blackness of an (as yet) undefined atheistic death.

You see, after your body tries to kill you, you have to regain a trust relationship, and I’m just not there yet.  For now every ache, pain, tic, pop could potentially be the harbinger of my doom.

This will pass.  I know this.  Someday, hopefully sooner than later, I’ll regain that trust.  But for now I lay down in an uneasy compromise to the fatigue and hope against hope that everything is going to be ok.