Nightmares

C was napping again.  He had taken to napping most days, anytime he wasn't working.

In the previous year, he had a brief burst of fresh motivation related to his health.  He began walking or jogging regularly.  He would sometimes ride his bike.  But lately, he slipped quietly upstairs and we would find him sleeping in the guest bed for sometimes hours on end.

His move to the guest room came in February of 2024, at my insistance, after years of violent outbursts in his sleep had me left me frazzled.  Three years earlier, I was awakened from a sound sleep with a sharp punch to my eye.  He jumped up and profusely apologized, explaining that he dreamed he was "fighting raccoons".  Another time it was a painful kick to my shin when he dreamed he was fighting off someone trying to kidnap our son.  Once I awoke to his hands around my throat, as he dreamed he was hanging onto the edge of a cliff.  

In January of 2024, I woke up in the middle of the night to C having what seemed like an entire conversation with himself, all in his sleep.  In the past, he or I had been known to mutter a few words in our sleep, here and there, and it always led to laughter the next morning when we shared what we heard and tried to figure out what strange dream led up to it.  But this was different.  It sounded as though he was awake, but he clearly was not. It was unnerving, as I groggily attempted to decipher if he was talking to me, or someone else, or to himself.

I nudged him and whispered that he was talking in his sleep, and asked if he would move to the guest room.  He easily complied, and I felt him stand up beside the bed in the darkness.  In moments, though, the bed grew heavy with his weight again as he returned.  I was still feeling spooked, but reasoned that he must still be in a heavy state of sleep, and let it go.

Within minutes, the sleep talking began again.  By now I was exhausted and freaked out and annoyed.  "C, you're talking in your sleep!  Please go to the guest room!"  He responded with anger, which was counter to his usual demeanor.  "OKAY!  FINE!"  He lumbered out of the bed, stomping until I heard a loud crash.  Our son, sleeping on our floor, jumped up, scared.  I raced to the lightswitch and illuminated the room to find C sprawled out on the floor, seemingly stunned.  

I was angry, confused, scared.  "C, WHAT is going on?!  Are you on something?"  Suddenly he was passive, whining almost.  "What?  No...no, hon, no."  I was angry.  Something was clearly going on.  As if a switch flipped, he deflated and said, "Babe, no, I'm sorry.  I know what it is.  I just didn't want to say anything and upset you."  My breath caught in my chest.  What was it?  Was he sick?  Did he find out something from the doctor?  He looked down and quietly said, "It's because I'm hurt that you cheated on me."

It was the very last thing I expected him to say.  Wait...what?  

It was his go to.  His ammunition.  In 2005, I nearly left our marriage.  Even a brief two years into our union, I was lonely.  It wasn't just that he traveled all the time for work.  It was that he never touched me.  His list of excuses to get out of sex were endless.  He was too tired, felt bloated, had a cold, a sunburn.  When someone came along who desired me--my friendship, my opinions, my time, my body--I contemplated leaving my marriage for a different path.  C knew.  I told him.  He didn't react well.  He began secretly tracking my e-mails.  Threatening the other man.  We went to marriage counseling a total of once.  But it was enough for me to decide that I wanted to stay with him.  I loved him--even without a complete marriage.  I put that part of myself on a shelf in exchange for the other good things the relationship brought with it.  It felt like a trade off I could make.

But I was always aware that an important part of me was collecting dust on a shelf.  Most of the time, it was okay.  Sometimes, though, I wanted to feel whole.

And now, in the middle of the night, with no discernable explanation or preface leading to it, this man who was obviously impaired in some way was telling me I was the reason for his strange behavior.  My head was spinning.  I felt like I was still asleep.  The words didn't make sense.  His actions didn't make sense.  I was angry.

I closed the door.  Locked it, concerned that this man who seemed like a stranger could hurt me, hurt our son, go after our new rescue pup who inexplicably despised him.  

I woke up before the rest of the house the next morning, headed to an early pet sitting visit, and C was sprawled out awkwardly on the living room love seat.  P, our oldest, was asleep on the couch.  I woke him gently and told him to go to his bed.

When I returned a few hours later, P came into my room and closed the door behind him.  He asked me what was going on, and I told him how C had been talking in his sleep, and had fallen down on his way to the guest room.  I asked P how they had both come to be asleep in the living room.  He said that he was still awake when he heard C talking to himself, saying "I don't think anyone in this house loves me.  I think only my mom and dad love me."  P tried to talk to him, but his dad looked through him, curling up on the loveseat.  P, worried about him, got a blanket and slept on the couch to watch over him.  My heart broke.  It reminded me of stories you hear from children of alcoholics.  

A few weeks later, after another violent awakening in the night, I asked him to move to the guest room.  I was apologetic.  I had learned that he was likely suffering from something called REM Sleep Behavior Disorder, a condition that was almost always associated with neurological conditions.  I felt like a mean wife, relegating the long-suffering husband to the guest room--but worse, because perhaps he suffered from a neurological condition beyond his control.  I told him to get a sleep study, as the neurologist and doctors had suggested.  That we would get answers and treatment and he could come back to the marital bed then.  

But weeks and then months passed and he never scheduled a sleep study.  His absence in our bedroom felt like a newfound peace, and I slept better than ever, reasoning that plenty of husbands and wives kept separate sleeping spaces, and it didn't indicate an unhealthy marriage.  But I knew that our marriage was far from healthy.  There was an insidious disease in our union, in our home, in my husband.  I just didn't know what it was yet.