I Can’t Get No Sleep

Date: 11/26/2025

I can’t get no sleep. I begin the night as a hopeful pilgrim, lying flat like a sacrifice to the Dream Lords, praying they’ll baptise me in their ocean of oblivion. I imagine drifting out on a padded raft across the warm, silky waters of unconsciousness. A gentle hypnosis murmurs in my ears: “You are feeling deeply relaxed… your body is feeling very heavy…” And for a moment—just one—my bones are heavy. My limbs dissolve. My mind detaches like an astronaut unhooking from the station. Then I hear it. Patter-patter-patter. The sprinting footsteps of a tiny, nocturnal psychopath. Monkey. Our ginger-and-white tomcat. A creature born of cuteness and chaos, sent directly to test the limits of my humanity. He bursts into the room radiating wild, unfiltered gremlin energy. His silhouette scuttles under the bed like a demon with a purpose. He is not allowed upstairs. My rule. My one boundary in this godforsaken household. Mat, of course, would happily let him curl up on our pillows like a misfiring purr bomb. But we’ve tried that before. Monkey scaled the headboard like some deranged Victorian chimney sweep and jump-scared us every five minutes. That night ended with my decree: “No. Cats. In. The. Bedroom.” I cling to this rule the way a drowning woman clings to a plank. Sleep is too fragile. Too scared. Too endangered. It cannot survive a furry lunatic assaulting its cycles. I shut my eyes and try to reclaim my drifting raft. Then— The hallway erupts with a violent strip of light, white and biblical. Mat appears, panting like he’s chased livestock. “Monkey! Come here, you bugger!” My eyes rip open like gunshots. Brilliant. Now I have two idiots playing cat-and-mouse under the bed, bumping around my sanity like it’s a loose marble on a roller coaster. Mat tries to reach for Monkey. Monkey slinks back into his cavern. Mat reaches again. Monkey giggles—actually giggles. Eventually Mat gives up with dramatic defeat. “I’ll come get him later.” Fine. Let me rot in peace. I just want silence. I close my eyes. Sink. Drift. THUD. A weight drops directly onto my head. Monkey has returned to deliver a blessing of chaos. He plops beside me, purring with the intensity of a failing generator, kneading my burrito-wrapped body like dough he plans to bake and devour. It’s cute. In a demonic, malicious way. But I want sleep more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this filthy Earth. Darkness takes me. For a moment. BANG. BANG. BANG. My eyes fly open. “Is that artillery fire?” No. It’s my thirteen-year-old son charging up the stairs, each footfall a seismic event. We call him Flipperfeet because he walks like a scuba diver wearing concrete fins. I shut my eyes. BANG. BANG. BANG. He forgot something. Of course he did. Up he goes again, stomping with the precision and enthusiasm of a malfunctioning robot. I think the staircase is actively deteriorating. Then the hallway light flicks on—my personal nemesis. My tormentor. A radiant demon shining its accusations directly into my retinas. I’m instantly awake. Again. “Monkey?” I grope around. He’s gone. Under the bed again. Round two of cat-and-mouse with the voices in his head. Eventually—after snarling, hissing, and what sounds suspiciously like a minor exorcism—Mat extracts him. Monkey shrieks the whole way down the stairs while my husband scolds him like a disgraced toddler: “You’re a very naughty boy!” Yes. Yes he is. He is the embodiment of disobedience wrapped in fur. Peace. Blessed peace. I close my eyes. Sink. Drift. BANG. BANG. BANG. Flipperfeet again. Possibly retrieving a forgotten thought. Back down. Back up. The stairs sob. I abandon the hypnosis track like a useless ex-boyfriend: full of empty promises. Finally, the velvet darkness begins to swallow me… Lights. Brutal, apocalyptic lights. I swear the hallway bulb has consciousness and hates me. Mat barges in again, wheezing like an asthmatic steam engine. He rummages violently through drawers. Bang. Bang. Bang. Each slam is a dagger to the remains of my soul. Then— thud. The bed dips. Mat has arrived with his Kindle, a miniature sun in his hand. I flip over like a frying sausage attempting escape, shielding my eyes, burrowing under the duvet like a hunted animal. “Lord give me mercy,” I whisper into the oppressive heat. My eyelids close— BANG. BANG. BANG. Flipperfeet. Again. Another forgotten bodily function. I want to cry. Or scream. Or astral-project myself into the void. Minutes trickle into hours, slow as torture. My eyes are tiny battlegrounds, constantly ambushed, constantly assaulted. But somehow—miraculously—I begin to sink. Deeper. Heavier. Sleep is coming. Sweet, holy sleep— The shower pipes erupt in a death rattle. My son’s singing echoes down the hall like a ghost lullaby. A midnight shower. Perfect. I close my eyes again, begging whatever gods still tolerate me. And then I feel it. Hands. Warm. Familiar. Unwelcome. “Oh no…” I whisper to the universe. A ragged breath ghosts across my neck. Hands begin migrating south like nocturnal explorers. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever again if this persists. I wiggle—polite, subtle, Britishly apologetic. Not tonight, please. He misreads it catastrophically. He presses against me, groaning like a drunken walrus, something firm prodding my backside like an overly eager commuter on a full train. “Jesus wept,” I hiss. I perform a full ninja roll to the edge of the mattress. One millimetre more and I’ll be sleeping on the floor. Still, he doesn’t get it. He never gets it. Finally—after a series of whimpers that sound like a dying seal—he gives up. And at long last— Sleep consumes me. Only to spit me out seconds later. “Happy birthday!” Three smiling faces hover inches from mine, glowing with cheer, like a cult greeting their exhausted queen. “Thanks,” I manage, eyes drooping like collapsing sandbags. “I hope you slept well,” Mat says cheerfully. I want to say, You have personally assassinated my fifty-day dreaming streak. Instead, I smile. And hug them. Because apparently, I love them. Even if they have destroyed me.