bedlam birdmad chaos once the name of an insane asylum in nineteenth century France, a dread place, like the asylum at Charenton 010128 ... argo Absolutely. Brought about by those spooning immaculate amounts of sugar into their coffee. 010129 ... a bullet called life (yeah mama called life) the kombucha mushroom people (sugar) 010208 ... ovenbird The world has a rule that if you are married or living with a romantic partner you are supposed to share a bed, because…well…I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s a symbol of unity, or of intimacy, or of sexual access, but what it has always felt like to me is an imposition on my ability to rest. Someone decides that they need overnight access to my body and this means having to endure a person with completely different sleep habits than mine creating disturbances all night. It means never getting enough sleep because the person I share a bed with goes to bed an hour later than me (thus waking me up as they get settled) or wakes up earlier than me (thus waking me up as they toss and turn in the morning before finally getting out of bed) or otherwise wakes me up for myriad reasons (mouth breathing, coughing, sniffling, stealing blankets, touching me, rolling over—and this is not even close to an exhaustive list). The first time I slept over at a boyfriend’s house I was awake the entire night. After my first baby was born, bed sharing with my husband became intolerable. I was already waking up multiple times a night to tend to the baby and I didn’t need an adult human waking me as well. So I bucked convention, chose anarchy, and moved into another room. I slept in a rickety single bed rescued from my in-laws’ basement. The headboard looked like it belonged in a Victorian dollhouse and my brother was certain the bed was haunted. I didn’t care. That narrow bed was an oasis. It was a symbol of my autonomy. It was proof that there were moments in the day when I could belong solely to myself. I could dream there without fear of being kicked or sneezed on. I could have all the blankets to myself. It was too small for anyone else to squeeze into, so no one tried. I’ve insisted on having my own bedroom ever since. As someone with multiple sleep issues my rest is a sacred ritual and I protect it fiercely. I draw the room around me—wool duvet, flannel sheets, air run through a HEPA filter, black out blinds, tape over every tiny light from electronic devices, a strict schedule that allows for a consistent 7.5 hours of uninterrupted sleep, white noise machine set to a low grumble, contoured pillow. No one is allowed in unless I invite them. And between the hours of 11:00 pm and 6:30 am no one is invited in unless it’s a legitimate emergency. Every night I exercise my sovereignty and give myself the gift of restful solitude. And still, when I dream, I sometimes find myself cradled in the arms of another warm body, their breath soft against my neck, their presence a quiet comfort. The dream world gives me the downy nest I cannot abide in life. Funny how I can sleep in dreams, while here in the concrete world my eyes rail and rail against closing. 260318 what's it to you? who go blather from