Bad in Bed

Adventures in waking and sleeping

I can still picture my mom becoming increasingly teary as it became clear that her new boyfriend was not going to show. We sat and waited at this Mexican restaurant, where he was to meet her friends. Across the table from me, she grumbled to her pal Tappy that it didn’t matter anyway, because this man, Larry, was “terrible in bed.”

I was ten, listening in and trying to understand while I sipped a Coke with crushed ice. I rattled the ice in my tumbler and pictured Larry, the balding real estate agent, limbs akimbo, unable to get into a normal human sleeping position. This man could not figure out how to use a bed.

I never thought of Larry the same way after that. While my mom forgave him this no-show and many other failings, I would shake my head at him and think, What the hell’s wrong with you, man? Is anything easier than sleeping?

Like all scoffing everywhere, though, my scoffing at Larry was drenched in hypocrisy. I myself was, and always had been, a terrible sleeper. This was at least partially due to all the late night emergencies in our house. Between the Larrys and the Barrys, the Jeffs and the Sebastians, all of whom quickly vanished, I was the man of the house from the age of seven. Sleep happened in between keeping an eye on everything.

One time our mom went to Mexico with a new boyfriend and left us for three days. I was eleven then, my little sister just nine. It sounds crazy now, but we were thrilled with this arrangement. It was summer, so there was no school to worry about, no rules to follow. I made us scrambled eggs for dinner, and we stayed up late watching TV, scarfing entire sleeves of chocolate-chocolate chip cookies.

A little after midnight, while watching a movie, we heard something in the back yard. A snapped branch, possibly footsteps. I fetched my Crosman BB gun from behind the bookcase and stepped out onto the back patio, legs trembling, my sister inside behind the curtain. It felt like a movie. I cocked the slide back and into place, figuring this would show whomever that I meant business. There was nothing, just the chirping crickets and the low rumbles and whooshes from the nearby 405 freeway. I double-checked all the locks and slept on the couch in our living room that night, the BB gun within reach.

Sometimes, especially when there was no boyfriend around, our mom would turn a corner at night. She couldn’t take it, she’d tell us—“it” being everything: life, us kids, work, the whole mess. There were nights where she just cried a bit, and other times where something would completely overtake her. Once it was clear that this episode was going supernova, that she was in a barrel going over the falls, my sister and I would say to each other, “Here we go.”

I’ll spare you (and my late mom) the details of these nights, but rooms were destroyed. Things were said to us that I’ll never forget, and for a long time, I believed those things. I felt sure that I was responsible for all of it. She told me as much, many times during her spells, and it’s only now that I know it wasn’t true.

I don’t think any of these things were in her heart. They were just winds that whipped through her, something she was channeling from long before me, and—given her own parents—long before her, too, going back generations. None of these things are in my heart, either, though I can still feel the echoes sometimes. Occasionally, briefly, I can still convince myself of the old things: You’re no good, and you know it.

Eventually, after the troubles were over, my sister and I would help our mom into bed. We’d put the TV on for her, as she liked to sleep with it on, “for the company.” I’d go to bed and lie awake for a while, thinking about everything. It was in these late hours that my sister and I would knock on the wall between our two bedrooms, a simple knock, knock-knock-knock, which meant Are you-a-sleep? Two knocks in response meant no. It felt good to know she was there, too, awake in the dark like me.

Sometimes I’d snap to around 4am, hearing a steady tone coming from our mom’s room. Back then the local TV channels would broadcast a color bar with a tone after hours. I’d stand in my mom’s doorway, the TV’s glow illuminating her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful then. I’d quietly click the TV off, the sudden silence startling her. “I was listening to that,” she’d mumble, only half-stirring.

I still wake up on occasion, wondering if something has happened. I worried about my aging mom and dad for years, keeping the phone within reach at all hours, but they’re both gone now. Occasionally, something horrendous will flash through my half-sleep, something happening to Emma, or the kids. Nothing wakes me up like these brief imaginings, my heart thumping along. Everything’s okay, I tell myself, rolling back over. Everyone’s okay.

I’ve tried all the things everyone tries, and some of them really help. Chamomile tea, a weighted blanket, magnesium, sleeping cold, NSDR in the afternoons—all great. I could go on and on, but it would put any normal person right to sleep.

My wife, Emma, needs none of this. She’s one of those old school, no-frills sleepers. She slips into bed, reads a few pages, snaps off the light, and sleeps eight hours straight, without fail. “That’s the sign of a clear conscience,” my mother-in-law said to me once, when I was marveling at this.

These days, I mostly sleep just fine. Either way, I try not to stress about it anymore. If I stir, I’m usually able to convince myself of the reality, which is that there’s no actual problem, right here, right now. Just sensations, coming and going.

On the odd night when I’m struggling, I’ll put on a podcast at low volume, and eventually drift off into a twilight state. Emma might wake at some point if I forget the sleep timer. I sense her reaching over me, moving slowly and with great care, finding the pause button, then rubbing my arm. “I was listening to that,” I say dreamily, like an echo from long ago—which, like any echo, is softer and gentler with each return, finally, finally coming to rest.