Falling asleep had never seemed scary. Dreaming for hours about random, senseless bits of life had always been something to relish. That is, until it lasted too long. 32 hours to be exact. Never before had it seemed possible to finish a day, talking to friends, laughing, living, and then fall away. Asleep.
Falling asleep didn’t seem scary until I awoke and the world was split in two. Literally. When standing up straight was a challenge and it was difficult to determine whether I was awash in sleep, longing to return to it or if the longing for it was the only means to get me out of a strange reality; the fear seeped in.
Falling asleep never came with a warning label. Sleep was never deemed a dangerous entity. Until it’s not sleep, but referred to by many (except myself, at first) as a coma.
From the Greek, koma (κῶμα), meaning deep sleep, is a profound state of unconsciousness. Profound unconsciousness. Profound. Unconsciousness. Somehow I had fallen into a profound state of unconsciousness.
The moment the word slipped off my tongue, it became palpable.
A blood clot hit my brain, my thalamus to be exact, my sleep center, knocking me out. Literally. Completely unexpectedly.
Changing me.