My father refuted the concept that babies needed to learn how to fall asleep on their own.
As a five-year-old, he would sit on the edge of my bed and tell me stories of his childhood days until my eyes stayed shut and my breathing evened out. I’d fall asleep to tales of village boys, night classes, and factory jobs.
As a ten-year-old, I would come down to the living room and lay on the couch, watching him draw out furniture designs at the dining room table and listening to CNN play from the TV speakers at a low volume while my mom slept soundly upstairs. No matter what time I'd finally fall asleep, he would carry me back to my bedroom and tuck me in like he did when I was five.
As a twelve-year-old, I would lay on my back and stare at my bedroom ceiling, imagining the stories my father could tell me about the after-life. I pictured a society built on clouds, with golden gates and groups of peaceful figures, discussing the lives they watched their loved ones carry on with from above. Once sleep finally came, I’d smile softly, thanking him for helping me fall asleep like always.
As a fifteen-year-old, I would turn on my desktop and play DVDs in sequence until my eyes could no longer make out the images playing from across the room.
As a seventeen-year-old, my high school workload kept me so busy that sleep didn’t even seem like an option to begin with. I preferred it this way. I always seemed to fall asleep much easier when it wasn’t expected of me. My mother hated walking into my room in the mornings to find me crouched over my desk, resting my head on an open pile of books as the desktop screen filled with yearbook designs flashed over my messy hair.
As a twenty-year-old, the inability to sleep served a purpose. New York City reserves its wildest opportunities for those with the nocturnal energy to walk the streets past midnight. When I found myself laying on my back, staring at the same old ceiling, I’d simply slip out of bed, order a cab, and spend the next five hours dancing in downtown Manhattan with a mix of strangers and late night friends. As long as I was back in bed, beneath the same old ceiling, by morning, my mother remained calm.
