“Confronting the Dawn” by Sophia Voltz, 18

As I exited through the doorway of my friend's house, I noted the barely lightening color of the early morning sky silhouetted subtly against the treeline. It’s a little past 5 AM, and like most people, she’s fast asleep in her bed. I would be right there with her, if I could; but it had been hours since she knocked out and I just couldn’t stare at the ceiling anymore. So, like any good house guest, I cleaned her table of takeout boxes and soda cans, bid her pleasant dreams, and left. Briefly, I paused on her doorstep, considering my options. It took less than a second for me to reach the conclusion that going home was off the table. Delivering myself to a house filled with sleeping people, taunting me even in slumber, didn’t seem particularly appealing. During my many years of sleepless nights, I’d always dreaded the cool blue of morning light, creeping through my window pane and up my wall. It was the same feeling one might get watching the last stubborn grains of sand trickle through the funnel and into the pit of an hourglass. In a phrase, time was up. But it’s the summer before college now, and the world doesn’t care when I sleep. So, I decided I was going to confront this long held fear by watching the sunrise at the park.

Having lived most of my conscious life this way, I’ve found a myriad ways to fill my surplus of time. I honed my skills in art and writing, even dabbled in yoga. But mostly I watched an egregious amount of television. Lots of anime; Some manga and books. Only with the acquisition of my driver’s license was I released into the outside world at night. And boy, did I hit the ground running. 24-hour establishments and local playgrounds learned my presence well and quickly. Swing sets especially know my name. Little else does as well to lull my troubled mind than the rise and fall of a rusty old swing set. In these lonely moments, I feel I'm in on a

sort of secret. A good score of people may never see the park like this. It's times like these, when I see the world differently because of my condition, that I feel a twisted sort of gratitude for it. The grass is hardly greener under the sun than beneath the harsh fluorescence of the soccer field's towering floodlights.

With these small pockets of beauty, however, comes a landslide of consequences. The mental and physical repercussions of extreme insomnia are almost too many to count. Fatigue, confusion, weight loss, and poor appetite are just a few among the score of symptoms. And more often than not, they’re seen before they’re felt. In the bathroom mirror before a shower, I’d catch a glimpse of my reflection, only to realize that my ribs were protruding and my collarbones had become sharp and jagged. Not to mention my prominent eye bags and corpse-like skin. At this point, it's still easy enough to ignore. It’s all still trapped behind the glass of the mirror. On the third day of sleeplessness, though, I became acutely aware of my condition. Splitting headaches and bouts of delirium were persistent; my muscles began going into atrophy, and I trembled with the effort of every movement. Only then was I forced to confront the severity of my situation.

Insomnia at this level doesn’t come out of nowhere; I’m no exception to this rule. As a child, I would frequently sneak out of my room late at night for a snack and some TV. It was not at all uncommon for me to encounter my Dad in the kitchen on these nights. After all, I did get my nocturnal tendencies from him. My Father being the kind of man he is, these were rare moments of bonding, so I did appreciate the opportunity to share a cup of OJ with him. It came to a point, though, where we had decided this harmful habit needed to be addressed, and I was admitted to Walter Reed Military hospital for a sleep study. They were thorough; I was hooked

up to a menagerie of machines by a multitude of wires and tucked into bed for monitoring. I slept a fitful five hours that night, and after a dreadfully long wait, received inconclusive test results. With no more options for answers, I was prescribed a fickle sleep aid and sent on my way.

It's really no wonder that I’ve come to fear the morning sun. Hour after hour, I lay awake in my bed; every time I closed my eyes, they were pried back open and glued to my wall. And despite it all, life goes on. No matter how tired you are, how little sleep you get, the school bus still comes to pick you up at 6:20 AM. So when I get out of my car at Nottoway and the clock reads 5:15, I couldn’t help but feel anxious. With the pale orange of the sky to light my way, I followed the familiar path to the swing set I loved so much. When I arrive, I sit, and for the first time ever I am not afraid of the dawn. I am finally able to appreciate the birdsong, and the sunrise. Fluffy cumulonimbus backlit by coral and sherbet skies. Wrens and robins fill the air with song. Surrounded by these profound beauties of nature, my anxieties melted away. I found myself feeling rather silly, forever being afraid of something so purely beautiful.