Here is the first character email that was exchanged between Hey_jude and I. Henry is my character while Erin belongs to Hey_jude.
I guess I should tell you something about myself, other than Hi, my name is Erin. I feel like I'm at an alcoholic's anonymous meeting or something, starting out that way. So maybe I'll start another way, and hopefully you can pick out the little details of my life from here. First of all I'm crazy. That's why I can't sleep tonight. It's nothing new. I haven't slept in two months, or is it three? I can't remember. I used to think there was something wrong with me. I'd be so tired in the early stages. I could feel my poor deprived body craving for sleep, but my eyes stayed open, alert, as though warding off something that would attack as soon as my eyelids fell. My mother phoned yesterday after our weekly brunch. “You aren't sleeping are you?” she said. I honestly didn't think she would notice. My weariness has worn off, I'm more alert now in the mornings. You can't even see the dark circles under my eyes. I still have to apply makeup, but only I know that. Not even Kim (my husband) notices. But then again, he's so busy. “I've been a little restless,” I began, fending off any lectures that were sure to follow. “You know there are groups out there to help,” she said. With my mother, anything amiss, even if it's a small case of insomnia is urgent enough to warrant a visit to a shrink. She believes in medicating all problems away. And I guess her advice is one of the reasons I'm here typing this email. I don't like chat rooms, but surfing the web last night, I spotted a group that was called NightWalkers.com. It's a glorified shrine for insomniacs like myself, a place of nightly socializing, a way to support our nocturnal habits that have everyone else scratching their heads at. You know the kind of people I'm talking about, those same people who used to make me feel like it was wrong? People like my mother...like my husband. But it is? If I prefer the night to the day, what does it matter? That's actually what one of the woman wrote on the website. I guess it stuck in my head, that's why I'm telling you now. It's not that I really want to stay awake, it's just I can't. Honest to goodness, can't. Anyway, I chose you, because I honestly didn't knew who else to talk to. I can't talk to my family, they wouldn't understand. They say they understand but I've always been a people reader, in their eyes, they don't understand at all. Being married to a successful lawyer should have some perks, but I can't enjoy any of them. Before I was married, I used to aspire. I wanted to be one of those collage people who wore the collage mantra on their shirts, who spent their afternoons locked away in the cavernous library of some neglected campus. Yet, none of that happened. Some times, I walk by the collage, walk by the classrooms and wonder if I could still do it. Now I spend my time, spending all the money that Kim throws at me, spending time with my only companion, the visa card. I used to wish for money when we didn't have any, now I see it for what it really is, cold unfeeling lumps of paper that only serve as a poor replacement for the life I could have had. Should have had. And I find with each day, each night, being repeatedly and methodically swallowed up in the dark, I'm losing my grip of reality. Told you I was crazy,
I guess I should tell you something about myself, other than Hi, my name is Erin. I feel like I'm at an alcoholic's anonymous meeting or something, starting out that way. So maybe I'll start another way, and hopefully you can pick out the little details of my life from here.
First of all I'm crazy. That's why I can't sleep tonight.
It's nothing new. I haven't slept in two months, or is it three? I can't remember.
I used to think there was something wrong with me. I'd be so tired in the early stages. I could feel my poor deprived body craving for sleep, but my eyes stayed open, alert, as though warding off something that would attack as soon as my eyelids fell.
My mother phoned yesterday after our weekly brunch.
“You aren't sleeping are you?” she said. I honestly didn't think she would notice. My weariness has worn off, I'm more alert now in the mornings. You can't even see the dark circles under my eyes. I still have to apply makeup, but only I know that. Not even Kim (my husband) notices. But then again, he's so busy.
“I've been a little restless,” I began, fending off any lectures that were sure to follow.
“You know there are groups out there to help,” she said. With my mother, anything amiss, even if it's a small case of insomnia is urgent enough to warrant a visit to a shrink. She believes in medicating all problems away.
And I guess her advice is one of the reasons I'm here typing this email. I don't like chat rooms, but surfing the web last night, I spotted a group that was called NightWalkers.com. It's a glorified shrine for insomniacs like myself, a place of nightly socializing, a way to support our nocturnal habits that have everyone else scratching their heads at. You know the kind of people I'm talking about, those same people who used to make me feel like it was wrong? People like my mother...like my husband.
But it is? If I prefer the night to the day, what does it matter? That's actually what one of the woman wrote on the website. I guess it stuck in my head, that's why I'm telling you now.
It's not that I really want to stay awake, it's just I can't. Honest to goodness, can't. Anyway, I chose you, because I honestly didn't knew who else to talk to. I can't talk to my family, they wouldn't understand. They say they understand but I've always been a people reader, in their eyes, they don't understand at all.
Being married to a successful lawyer should have some perks, but I can't enjoy any of them.
Before I was married, I used to aspire. I wanted to be one of those collage people who wore the collage mantra on their shirts, who spent their afternoons locked away in the cavernous library of some neglected campus. Yet, none of that happened. Some times, I walk by the collage, walk by the classrooms and wonder if I could still do it.
Now I spend my time, spending all the money that Kim throws at me, spending time with my only companion, the visa card. I used to wish for money when we didn't have any, now I see it for what it really is, cold unfeeling lumps of paper that only serve as a poor replacement for the life I could have had.
Should have had.
And I find with each day, each night, being repeatedly and methodically swallowed up in the dark, I'm losing my grip of reality.
Told you I was crazy,
Erin