I didn't sleep for three years.

It began on the monthly full moon. It all felt very romantic.

Soon, it was every night.

I got so much done.

I couldn't drink more than one cup of coffee or my eyes would vibrate.

I would wake up in the middle of the night, finally hungry, and make myself toast with butter and smoked turkey. In the morning, my husband would see my plate in the sink and know I hadn't slept.

By the end, I could no longer sleep next to him or any other breathing body. I couldn't stand being touched. I couldn't sleep naked. The sheets were too much. My skin and nerves too sensitive.

I would like to say it felt sad, but it didn't. Despite being able to feel everything, I also felt nothing.

The night before I wanted to end my life, I only slept two hours.

The night before I went to rehab, I only slept for three.

I spent ninety days in Colorado waking up with the sun and two cups of coffee.

When I returned to Seattle to face the smoldering embers, all I could do was sleep.

I bought a home in the Central District—a financial transaction I am still losing sleep over.

I moved in to my new place last week and there are boxes on the bed.

I still haven't slept there yet.

- Rachel Demy (b. 1982, San Diego, CA)