'I Can't Sleep Anymore', by Roopa Swaminathan
I can’t sleep anymore.
I’m scared. Scared of saying something. Anything.
I’m not scared for myself. I’m lucky that I’m not the one they’re after. But I’m scared that if I say what’s right, they’ll go after my young ones, my old ones, and my middle-aged ones who are my heartbeat, the owners of my soul, stuck to my body, my heart, my very being.
I can’t sleep anymore.
I’m ashamed. Ashamed I’m not saying something. Anything.
I’m ashamed that my not saying something, anything will allow them to go after someone else’s young ones, old ones, and middle-aged ones who are someone else’s heartbeat and owners of their soul.
I can’t sleep anymore.
I’m worried. Worried for those who are saying something. Anything. Everything. Who are doing the right thing. Who are doing what I should be doing but don’t have the courage to do. I’m worried for those who stand and stare down fiercely at those who’d rather that everyone was like me. Scared. Worried. Ashamed. I’m so, so, so worried for those who proudly and fearlessly own the truth, and to hell with being scared and politically correct. I’m worried about what may happen to them. What will surely happen to them? If not now, today, then tomorrow, the day after….one day, someday.
I can’t sleep anymore.
I’m petrified for those who aren’t lucky like me. How do they feel when they wake up and know they have to live one more day amidst the hate, the violence, the injuries? How do they feel when they send their little ones, their heartbeats, the owners of their souls - to school, to work, to the grocery store, to the tailor, to Jogger’s Park, for a walk around their neighborhood and live on pins and needles till their beloved/loved ones come back home safe with the smiles on their faces intact. Or come back home with no smiles on their faces because they were heckled, harassed, thrown things at – they’re barely alive and barely breathing - but at least they’re home.
I can’t sleep anymore.
I toss and turn every single night. I wonder, why can’t I be someone who doesn’t think or feel? Why can’t I go about my life with a shrug and with a what happens, happens attitude? Why can’t I be like them who believe that there are no differences, no one is really being hurt, that it’s all in people’s minds? Why can’t I believe that all news is fake? Why can’t I wake up, make tea, haggle with the vegetable vendor over the cost of onions, go to work in my airconditioned chauffeur-driven Scorpio, come back home, drink hot filter coffee, watch Ozark, dine on amma’s homemade avial and sambhar, go to bed and sleep a full-night without any nightmares? Rinse. Repeat.
I can’t sleep anymore.
Because I’m one of the many who is scared shitless of the repercussions that come with taking a stand for what’s right but who are also not ruthless or indifferent or clueless or intentionally stupid to believe the world is just as it should be and that there’s nothing untoward going on here. That’s why…
I can’t sleep anymore.
I literally count the seconds and minutes and hours every single night with my eyes wide open, and alternate between feeling the chills and wrapping my magenta crocheted rug tightly over my ears to keep the cold out and then pushing everything away and sweat buckets of misery and cry tears of dying hope. My heart pounds fast, and my throat is parched but I punish myself by not quenching my thirst. You don’t deserve water, you coward!
I can’t sleep anymore.
So, I do what they all ask me to do.
I pray. I pray to my power. Then I hedge my bets and pray to his power, her power, their power. I beg for sanity. I plead for justice. I silently scream for the willfully blind to open their eyes wide and feel the injustice, the pain, the fear.
I can’t sleep anymore.
I feel guilty. In the darkness of the night, I’m gutted with my privilege and toss and turn on my bed. I feel sick to my stomach even as I sigh in relief within the deep recesses of my cowardly mind that I’m so lucky because some twist of fate, karma, or roll of the dice made me not one of ‘them.’ I sympathize and empathize with ‘them’ but thank God I’m not one of ‘them’. I’m relieved no one will come after me and my loved ones. And then I feel the deep ache of a broken heart again. I twist, I turn. Rinse. Repeat.
I can’t sleep anymore.
But I want to sleep.
So, I do the one thing everyone tells me works.
I pray. I pray to my power. Then I hedge my bets and pray to his power, her power, their power. And I ask questions. Oh, I ask so many questions.
But no one answers.
Roopa writes essays, opinions, humor, and fiction. Her fiction, satire, and creative non-fiction essays are published on Outlook, Federal, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Free Flash Fiction, The Lark, Kitaab, Eksentrika, Women's Web, and more. She now has a monthly opinion column on Elephant Journal. Her humor is published on The Belladonna Comedy, Slackjaw, Frazzled, Greener Pastures Magazine, The Haven, and more. She refers to herself in the 3rd person, is fiercely competitive, and f*cking loves and hates amazing writers. Check out her work at www.themessyoptimist.com