Jack Nicholson and I

This blog is a throwback to about a year and a half ago. Before I even thought about pursuing my dreams as a writer.

“You are so strong.”

“I could never do what you do.”

“You’re amazing for holding on.”

When my friends and family hear about my sleepless nights, I’m showered with praise, compassion, and support. And while I appreciate their kindness, I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel amazing for simply surviving. What other choice do I have? There was no escape, no easy fix. I couldn’t just press a button and make my son sleep. I couldn’t hit ‘undo’ on the exhaustion. I was locked in this reality, and all I could do was survive it.

Survival… That’s what it felt like I was doing. I was no longer living. I was just surviving. Sleep deprivation does something to you. It erodes you, stripping away every layer of patience and reason until all that’s left is something raw and desperate. And I was alone in it.

My partner worked on and off in another country, gone for two weeks at a time, home only for a weekend before leaving again. When the sun set, and the rest of the world settled into sleep, I was still awake. Rocking, bouncing, shushing, a lot of pleading. There was no one to tap in, no one to split the nights with. Just me, my son, and the four walls that started to close in.

After a year and a half of broken nights, I watched The Shining with new eyes. Suddenly, it felt uncomfortably relatable. A writer, trapped in isolation, slowly losing their mind? I wasn’t saying I was about to chase my baby through the halls with an axe, but I’d be lying if I said some of Jack Nicholson’s facial expressions hadn’t flashed across my own face at that time. The thought of dying peacefully in the snow didn’t seem like the worst way to go, either, when I was being slapped in the face by a toddler at 3 in the morning.

I had always prided myself on my patience. No matter how tired I was, I never took my frustration out on my son. Until I did.

I don’t want to write this next part. Even as I type, my fingers hesitate over the keys, because the words make my stomach turn. But the truth is, at my lowest, I fantasized about handing my son over to my parents and giving up. He slept fine with them. He ate well. My parents didn’t lose their cool with him. Maybe he’d be better off. And if that was true, if I wasn’t even the best thing for my own child, then what was left? I pictured coming home to a hot bath, closing my eyes, and letting go of life.

Still, the thought of leaving him behind, of him growing up without me, is equally unbearable. I could never do that to him. The mere thought of him alone in this world, without my love and care, breaks my heart. But in my lowest moments, it was hard to even hold onto that belief. It became a strange sort of resignation. 

And then one night, at 4 AM, my son was screaming in my arms while I cried and screamed just as loudly, for a moment, the suicidal thoughts loosened their grip. Just enough for me to grab my phone and book a session with a new sleep coach. This would be the third coach I contacted since my son was born. Third time’s a charm, right?

When they suggested a controlled crying method, everything in me recoiled. No. Absolutely not. I’d read the studies. I knew the arguments. Letting him cry went against everything I believed in as a mother. He needed to feel safe, to know he was loved, to trust that I would always come when he called.

But there was another voice in my head. The one that was slowly morphing into Jack Nicholson. And it said, This is life or death.

This wasn’t just about his sleep anymore. It was about my life. About my literal survival. About reclaiming the mother I wanted to be.

So, I listened. I followed the plan. And, night by night, minute by agonizing minute, things began to change. It wasn’t easy. The first night felt like a scene ripped from my own personal horror movie. But it worked…

And the mother who had almost lost herself, she came back. I came back. With every night of sleep, every week of uninterrupted rest, a part of me reawakened, a part I didn’t even realize I’d lost in the haze of exhaustion.

I began to want things again. Things for myself, things that brought me joy (beyond inhaling carbs and rewatching the same shows on autopilot). I felt a fire reignite inside me, and interests I thought were gone, began to stir again.

There were ups and downs. The first two weeks, I didn’t sleep at all; my body was still trained to anticipate his cry. Then there was that month where it seemed like we were back to the old days, but we got through it. Things began to settle.

And then? I picked up my pen again. I started writing.

…

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words, please know that I sought professional help. Working with a psychologist helped me find my way back. So if you see yourself in this, please don’t try to carry it alone either. I didn’t.