Nuit-Mort

I seriously think my bed is trying to kill me. I sleep in the same bed that my parents bought me when I was five years old, and have had the same mattress for roughly an equal amount of time. My feet hang over the end, and I am restricted in movement due to the tiny single frame which threatens to collapse at any minute. For years I coped by curling up into a tiny ball, adopting the fetal position to contain my limbs within the cruel boundaries, but as time went on this was no longer possible and I've had to develop various coping mechanisms which have probably stunted my growth.

People are always horrified to hear this, but in the past I've always shrugged it off. I sleep like I'm six feet under, and once my arms and legs go numb from the contortions I'm actually quite comfortable providing my body subconciously moves now and then to let a little blood flow to the extremities. I must also have developed a symbiotic relationship with the millions of micro-bugs that no doubt infest my tattered mattress from being dragged around the deserts of Arabia to the suburbia of Canada. You could say that in a very real sense every sleep is like a trip down memory lane.

For twenty-six years I have slept in this torture chamber and finally I think its given up on me. The past few weeks have not been the most restful, to say the very least. The weight of my tiny body curled up on the upper half of the mattress have caused the springs to give out, leaving an uneven sleeping surface that provides no support and makes resting in bed feel like hanging out with the Spanish Inquisition. Which bit of you is going to hurt next?

Every night I wake up at 4am, for no reason. By this time my neck is sore, shoulders are aching and one out of two of my arms is numb. If I move my back screams, and it is impossible to get comfortable. I can get back to sleep only by finding a position that doesn't hurt too much and lying absolutely still, hoping that sleep overcomes me before my muscles atrophy. I sleep lightly for maybe another hour or two, and finally give up and make coffee, tired and aching.

As I type this my right arm is sore, and has been for some time, and my shoulders need the attention of a masseuse. I don't know how much more I can take. My bed, which has been with me longer than my youngest sister's been alive, is not having it. It's old and tired, and is determined to turn me into a cripple despite us both wanting the same thing - a rest.