When I was a kid, my dad would rub my head, pulling my hair back and down until I fell asleep. As an adult, I count sheep, calm my breathing, and think of happy places until I am void of happiness.
One hour, two, three, even four of telling myself sleeping shouldn’t be this hard. Sleeping should be bliss; it should be one thing I can look forward to after a long day of nothing but stress.
Sheep have too many details that I map out and analyze. Calming my breathing leads to shaky inhaling on the verge of crying, and happy places do nothing when they are all grim and bleak.Read more on themighty.com