Someone Else Entirely

It’s 2 am.

I rolled out of bed to take a dump, and now I’m staring at the wall, wondering if I had slept or if I am currently sleeping. I didn’t plan this—to be up at some ungodly hour questioning my reality. But I didn’t not plan this either.

Let me explain.

I am so stubborn that even after my stomach started making those weird bubbling sounds after I allowed a commercial to gaslight me into eating queso, I still didn’t go to the toilet. I was too tired. So, I decided the shit was going to have to wait.

Literally.

I stumble through life, determined to follow through on every decision I know I had no business making. Because mama didn’t raise no quitter. And I am seldom wrong. And most importantly, I don’t like people telling me what to do.

And what does that combination get you? The runs, at 2 in the morning, while staring at the wall and asking yourself how you got here.

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, and this path was inevitable.

Fate, they might call it. The kind of fate that has you sitting on the toilet when you could have been somewhere else entirely. Someone else entirely. Earlier today, I found some papers I wrote in college where the professor commented that I should keep writing underneath the letter grade—so, naturally, I stopped. As I said, I hate people telling me what to do.

Where would I have been if I had listened? If I had put pen to paper and continued to write like my life depended on it. Like it once had.  Would I have become a famous author by now? A prolific voice of my time? A confident writer?

“Mommy!” a little voice shouts through the baby monitor sitting on my nightstand, snatching me from my thoughts. I drop my head and let out a small sigh.

“Mommmmmyyyyyy!” the voice continues, drawing out the letters longer than they need to. I was going to have to put a pin in this and get to him before he wakes up the whole house. I flush, clean up, then tiptoe down the hall to his bedroom door.

As the door slowly creaks open, he pokes his head out from under his sheets.

“Mom, is that you?” he says in a soft and groggy voice. This can’t be the same boy who was screaming my name loud enough for the whole block to hear.

“Yes, baby. Are you ok?” I walk over to him and take a seat on his bed. He scoots over, dragging his sheet, and curls his body around me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently while stroking his head—my fingers pulling at his little curls.

“I had a bad dream,” he admits reluctantly.  

“I’m sorry, baby,” I offer, settling into the quiet of his room.

“Can you lie down next to me to sleep?” he asked. And I feel a sharp pain shoot up my back at just the thought of trying to squeeze into or get comfortable in his tiny bed.

“No, bud, I can’t do that.”

“Oohh,” he whimpered, pulling his sheets over his head.

“But, I’ll tell you what.” He peeked his head out from under his covers. “What?”

“How about I pray with you?” He raised an eyebrow. “After I pray with you, all of your bad dreams will go away, and Jesus will keep you safe. Do you want that?”

“Yes.” He nodded enthusiastically, then closed his eyes, clasped his hands, and waited silently.

I prayed. And when I finished, he capped it with an enthusiastic “AMEN!” and proceeded to get comfortable in his bed. I chuckled and rubbed his back until he fell asleep again.

I left his room and stood in the hallway, looking at my watch, surprised to see an hour had already vanished. I could go back to sleep, but it was only a matter of time before the next thing came up. How much sleep would I actually be getting? Nothing more than a tease, I’m sure.

I decided to go into my office. I closed the door softly behind me and rummaged around looking for my laptop. When I found it, I opened it up and took a seat on the floor in the far corner of the room, next to the nightlight. I feared turning on the lights would disclose my location. I relished these quiet hours. This was as good a time as any to start writing again.