I think there’s something seriously wrong with me. Probably you’ve guessed it already. My mom died. And I don’t say that for sympathy so much as I’m saying it to illustrate my poor sleeping habits as of late. Before she died, I didn’t sleep much. Now that she’s gone, I barely sleep at all.
Sleeping for me is like trying to orgasm. Sometimes it finishes too quickly, and I’m desperate for it to come back in a longer wave. Sometimes it lasts a little longer than I expected. But sometimes, it scares the shit out of me when I realize it needs some seriously weird and messed up stuff to engage with for me to finally get there. Lately for me, it’s hard to sleep without having something murder or death related to watch.
My husband thinks it’s a little strange. He laughs along with me at the oddness of it all. All the while hoping, I’m guessing, that I’m not giving him signs that he will soon be dying at my hands. But I can’t help it: I’m obsessed with murder, beyond the normal “I like to watch crime thrillers on Netflix” kind of obsession. I love learning about serial killers, I’ve often fantasized about being a detective observing and theorizing over a grim crime scene, I obsess about designing the perfect murder. Currently, I’m working on a scenario where my murder weapon is a sharp object made out of ice, and I surprise a stranger who’s taking a hot shower. Or bath. Doesn’t matter so long as the scenario will definitely destroy the murder weapon leaving no trace, making it impossible to connect me with the murder through fingerprints.
I promise you again: I am not a serial murderer in the making. My husband is alive and well, and he’s going to stay that way.
But true crime, listening to how people kill or how people struggle with someone they loved being killed, is literally the only thing that can make me fall asleep these days. I need to ponder over gruesome, explicit images of murder scenes to help ease me into unconsciousness. I need the dulcet tones of pathological, psychotic voices like Ted Bundy or Iceman, Richard Kuklinsky, to help me sleep. As soon as I hear their lifeless, terrifying voices talking in detail about how and why they’ve killed, I drift off to sleep like babies do when they listen to lullabies.
Because I’m a little bit crazy. And I just want to fucking sleep.