We moved on the weekend, into a big house near Golden Gate Park. 

In our last place, sleep was something slippery that I had to fight for, to grab with both hands tightly, often losing grip. Anxiety and depression has made sleep scarce and difficult for as long as I remember, so living in an apartment with large windows overlooking a busy street with several bars open until 2am—

every!

fucking!

night!

—certainly exacerbated my problems falling and staying asleep. And I need sleep. Without it, everything starts to disintegrate. Anxiety levels increase, and then it’s even harder to sleep. And so on and so forth. 

So here we are in the new house, on a quiet street. In fact, it’s so quiet, I’m finally discovering how severe my tinnitus is. To mask the ringing that I hear when it’s that goddamn quiet, we play white noise as we fall asleep. But I’m falling asleep, and falling hard. I’m using less chemicals as sleep aids, so I’m waking up with less cobwebs in the brain. 

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This was a boring story about sleep by Erica, 29.