Counting Sheep

I woke up today, or last night, rather, feeling as though i’d been asleep for hours. Eyes glued shut, I found myself wrestling through whether or not it was worth going to war with insomnia and trying to fall back asleep or just resigning myself to abide with the dawn, dragging myself out of shelter and into the weary arctic world because my roommate can only sleep with the window open. When I finally decided it best to check the time and make an informed decision, I was disturbed to find the tall white numbers on my phone flashing 10:46, meaning I had been asleep for just over an hour and a half. So now what? Do I battle this tension for the next eight hours or pray I can fall back asleep before the Keurig roars like a train engine and my  roommate shakes her Oatmilk coffee creamer to the tune of a filled-to-the-brim barf bag sloshing on a plane? It’s a sound I’ll probably never forget, sharing the same 10x10 basement rug with two girls from college who fall asleep before the sunset and wake up at four. I’ve never been a good sleeper. I count backward from five hundred, strangely reminiscent of the way I used to when I was a girl, counting nothing but invisible seconds pressed against an empty black backdrop because I simply couldn’t fathom counting sheep. I’ve seen sheep and I know they don’t jump over the fence one by one. There would be nothing calming about reigning in the chaotic herds of fluffy white stupidity, and my mind would race as I tried to count, determinedly  focused on not missing a single one, frustrated by my deep-rooted need for perfection, which would remind me of the points I was missing in math and the friendships that felt unstable, the messiness of my room and locker and purse and life, and how could I sleep with scholarships on the line and trying to perform, always trying to perform, not even knowing what the enneagram was but knowing a desire to achieve and be validated would be my fuel for existence? It was the fall of my senior year and I had interviewed for a full ride, despite not being able to pass honors math and always being the last to turn in my essays, I would toss and turn in the middle of the night, eventually getting up and hoping to find some rest on the living room couch. Many times, my dad would meet me out there. He would smile knowingly, likely just as stressed as I was. I would sit beside him and lay my head on his shoulder. He’d talk to me about the sovereignty of God and not having to find our validation from people or progress; but deep down I knew that that full ride was the reason he was awake too. And perhaps that need for validation and perfection is what had me tossing and turning, bright eyed and wide awake at 10:46 on the eve of my twenty-second birthday. I remember thinking I could just spend the time checking my phone; it was probably buzzing with texts about my birthday. And it wasn’t but it also wasn’t my birthday yet. I’m much more tired now and it’s still not really buzzing. I think if I keep looking for validation in people, I’ll never sleep. And I still refuse to count sheep, but I also refuse to keep counting missed math problems and insecure friendships and things that don’t feel like they’re perfect. Maybe one day I’ll get it right; and maybe then I’ll try counting sheep. It would be okay if I missed a couple. There’s a shepherd who never does, and he’s counted me as well.