I groped around for my phone to see what time it was, the clock showed 1:49am. Seriously? I rolled over and snuggled back under the covers for a few minutes, but there was no point trying to doze off. My insomnia had been in full swing for several days, three hours of sleep was all to be had. Using the ominous blue light on my cell phone to help me see, I quietly began the descent downstairs to make some coffee.
The house was chilly, but I loved sleeping with the windows open, the cool Fall breeze wafting across the bed, myself of course, buried beneath a mound of toasty warm blankets.
It didn’t make for great morning hair but, as far back as my memory would carry me, I knew I’d slept with the covers pulled over my head. It wasn’t until spending all this time
with Christen, that the thought crossed my mind this peculiar
ritual might have meaning deeper than the mere practical application of keeping my head warm. I did it year round; what was my purpose for it in the summer?
Shutting down the probes of introspection, I concluded there was surely no big mystery behind my blanket thing. It was more comfortable to concede my time with Christen simply had me psychoanalyzing everything about everyone, myself included. It didn’t mean anything. Right? I just needed some coffee, apparently I needed a lot of coffee. I put it out of my mind, and proceeded toward the kitchen.
The house was chilly, but I loved sleeping with the windows open, the cool Fall breeze wafting across the bed, myself of course, buried beneath a mound of toasty warm blankets.
It didn’t make for great morning hair but, as far back as my memory would carry me, I knew I’d slept with the covers pulled over my head. It wasn’t until spending all this time
with Christen, that the thought crossed my mind this peculiar
ritual might have meaning deeper than the mere practical application of keeping my head warm. I did it year round; what was my purpose for it in the summer?
Shutting down the probes of introspection, I concluded there was surely no big mystery behind my blanket thing. It was more comfortable to concede my time with Christen simply had me psychoanalyzing everything about everyone, myself included. It didn’t mean anything. Right? I just needed some coffee, apparently I needed a lot of coffee. I put it out of my mind, and proceeded toward the kitchen.
As I made my way downstairs, there was a faint fragrance of pumpkin spice coming from an unlit candle in the hall, and for a moment I could also smell the undeniable scent of freshly ground Columbian coffee beans brewing. It welcomed me like a long lost friend. My thoughts immediately transported me back to childhood. So many mornings I awakened to the sounds and accompanying aroma coming from Grandma’s Pyrex coffeepot as it began its faithful percolating at precisely 5:45am. I loved waking up at Grandma’s house. Even now, I’m not altogether certain if the tradition of my morning coffee is the need of caffeine, or the sheer love of how it engulfs the house in the most glorious of memories. Today, after only three hours of sleep, it was definitely the caffeine.
Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I saw that Christen had indeed made coffee and as soon as she heard me coming, had poured me a cup. “Good morning!”, her cheery voice greeted me. “What on earth are you doing up so early? Please tell me I didn’t wake you with all my clanging around in here!” I had no idea how long Christen had been up, but she was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans; her hair gathered up in a ponytail. She had pulled every dish out of the cabinets and drawers, and was cleaning every nook and cranny of the kitchen like she was on assignment from God with the clock ticking!
Sipping on my steaming cup of coffee, I slipped onto a barstool and tried to take in this scene as it unfolded in front of me. I tried to act very nonchalant, but to be perfectly honest, it con-cerned me. “Uhhh, no you didn’t wake me. I just couldn’t sleep, it happens. The joys of insomnia.” Why I felt the need to speak slowly and calmly, as if not to startle Christen, I wasn’t quite sure, but I did. “So…you couldn’t sleep, either?”, I con-tinued.
While I waited for Christen to offer some explanation as to what was going on, my eyes darted around the room quickly; half trying to absorb as much of the scene as I could for my research, half planning a quick escape, which of course made me feel wretchedly guilty. But the atmosphere was strange. Christen was wound like I’ve never seen her. She was moving faster than I think I’ve ever seen anyone move, and there was an air of disorganization about it. She’d start working on one cabinet, and then she’d get distracted. Next thing you’d know she’d be on to something else. She gave a whole new meaning to bouncing off the walls. Literally, she’d run into things every now and then, simply because she was moving so fast. The closer I looked, I noticed a slight tremor in her hands. Not a flat out shake, but a definite tremor. She was talking really loud, and fast. I hate to say it, but she just wouldn’t shut up.
Between you and me, I genuinely sat there for a while wonder-ing if Christen had become so fed up with how depressed she’d been that she’d swallowed a few too many of something, and was just flat speeding! How to describe what I was seeing, much less what I was experiencing in response to it, is beyond my ability to articulate.
There’s a part of me that wants to soft-soap this; downplay it. Toss it out because at least Christen was off that bloody couch, and back to some sense of normalcy where her depression was concerned. So what, she was up at 2:00am doing some spring cleaning; maybe it needed to be done. But, she asked me to write her story. My instinct to protect her in the telling of it
must be limited to concealing her identity. Not by fading into softer colors, the vivid reality of what I saw.
must be limited to concealing her identity. Not by fading into softer colors, the vivid reality of what I saw.
The truth is, I was greatly distressed by this whole kitchen scene. Christen felt emotionally supercharged, hyper beyond anything I’d ever seen in my life. She was a little disoriented
at times, and a bit unpredictable. There was way too much energy in her. I sat looking at her wondering if she would actually self-combust. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to do something. Should she take something? Should I call some-one? Christen was bouncing off the walls in a room with glass and knives, and there I sat like an idiot without the first clue how to respond.
at times, and a bit unpredictable. There was way too much energy in her. I sat looking at her wondering if she would actually self-combust. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to do something. Should she take something? Should I call some-one? Christen was bouncing off the walls in a room with glass and knives, and there I sat like an idiot without the first clue how to respond.
Join us next week for Part V of Christen's Story
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