Fiyola Hoosen-Steele is a former diplomat to the United Nations and former UN Representative for Plan International, Independent Diplomat, and Save the Children. She holds a Bachelor of Laws Degree, a Bachelor of Arts Honors Degree and a Master of Arts Degree in International Relations. Her works of fiction and non-fiction have appeared in The Bosphorus Review of Books, Flash Magazine, AFREADA Magazine, and Pensive Global Journal of Spirituality And The Arts. She was a finalist for the 2022 Ruminate Flash Prose Prize and lives in New York with her husband and daughter.

You Can Sleep When You Are Dead

They come to be heard, to be held, to be healed. They come one by one, and all at once. Their names—fear, regret, disappointment, shame, longing, and anger— are pseudonyms for they are her, hidden in spaces unsealed by a career of gravitas and glamour, beyond reach of family, friendships, her husband, her children, spaces that remain open in spite of the laughter, abundance, comforts. They come at that strange hour between wakefulness and sleepiness and stay until the slither of dawn breaks through the slumbering skies. And with them comes tossing, turning, pillow punching, legs tangling between sheets until they gnaw at her innards, grind her to a pulp, regurgitate, and start over. 

Not one to go down without a fight, she’s tried Epsom salt baths, yogi tea, lavender oils, and meditation. She’s listened to sleep stories, Buddhist chants, Hindu mantras, and the wisdom of self-proclaimed internet gurus. She’s zombie scrolled on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Tik-Tok. She’s medicated on tinctures of melatonin, CBD, THC, medicinal mushrooms, and herbal Xanax. And still, in the nightly battle between herself and herself, insomnia is ever victorious.

But not tonight. Tonight she will listen to all they have to say.         

She removes the covers, her body stiff from contorting into the many tight boxes of her life—the good daughter, sister, friend, wife, mother, heck, the good keeper of secrets and betrayals. She steps softly, careful not to wake her husband, his breathing deep and even. After fifteen years of marriage and both of them no longer making an effort to be intimate, she longs for him to hold her, though he doesn’t know it. She checks in on her daughters, asleep in the next room, dreaming of rainbows and unicorns, unaware their mother is a fraud, motherhood does not fulfill her. She makes her way down the stairs and onto the sofa nearest the window where the light from the street lamp filters through. She sits in the light and whispers into the darkness: “I am listening.” At first there is nothing. Then with all the whistles and bells of a grand parade, they come marching in. 

They speak of yesterday when she lost her shit getting her daughters ready for school and of the guilty tears she wept waving goodbye to them at the bus stop. They speak of her daughters hating her when they grow up, going into therapy and rehab, and ending up on the streets, homeless and helpless because she could not keep her shit together. They speak of how her daughters did not latch onto her breasts and were formula-fed, and would as direct result of her inadequacy end up obese and diabetic. They speak of the babysitter interviewed last Sunday, a former dancer and pediatric nurse who would be perfect, but for the child-trafficking statistics announced over NPR prompting that her daughters are likely to be kidnapped and sold into slavery. They speak of the embryo still frozen at the fertility clinic and of her inability to release those six cells to scientific research, after all, it was from six cells that her daughters were born. They remind her that she is menopausal and could not carry a baby to term. A surrogate would be required. But what if the surrogate refuses to part with the baby, and like a television drama it goes to court ending with her losing the child? They ask where she would get money for a surrogate? They remind her that her husband is already freaking out about using their savings to maintain their current lifestyle. And even if they did have the money, they remind her that her husband does not want more children, at least not with her because as he put it: she changed, she turned mean. He did not make allowance for her hormones, probably because she was not clinically diagnosed with postpartum depression, refusing to speak to doctors, ashamed of being anything other than a perfect mother. Then they speak of her upcoming appointment with the surrogate agency, an appointment made to tempt fate, an appointment made without her husband’s knowledge. They suggest she talk to her husband, but a discussion about another baby is a discussion about her shortcomings. Does he ever wonder why she refuses to part with the old strollers, car seats, and baby blankets?       

They speak of her trip to the supermarket and the price of the salmon that she bought for dinner. They speak of the cost of her reading glasses, Pilates package, and the caramel highlights in her hair. They speak of a time when prices were but numbers. They take her back to Istanbul, Geneva, London, Paris, Marrakesh, and Jerusalem, to a time of five-star hotels, business class tickets, Prada, Louis Vuitton, to a time of chasing sunsets and foreign lovers. Money comes easily and frequently, they say, but not in the year of pausing her career to lose herself, to find herself. They take on her mother’s voice: A woman must work so she is not beholden to a man. They speak of her freedom, stifled every time she checks a price tag, strangled when the credit card bill arrives, when she has to justify purchases, when the word budget is mentioned. They say she should have saved more. She could have invested more. How did twenty years of hundreds of thousands of dollars slip through her fingers? They say she can go back to her old job. But it came with a price, failing health. They say she can go back to the job before that, the job of her soul’s calling. But she gave that up for love, her soul betrayed. Then they say she could lose it all, Grey Gardens –house repossessed, husband’s job gone, stock market crash, her daughters left penniless, no college funds, no retirement funds, social security dried-up. They warn she will be poor. Then they remind her to play the lottery, to remember that she was born under a lucky star, and to say a prayer before selecting the Powerball numbers.   

They speak of her recent visit with her father, of how frail he looked in that hospital bed, undergoing tests, the doctors baffled by his symptoms, yet confidently spewing conjecture: depression, dementia, rheumatoid arthritis, Parkinson’s. They speak of how he has retreated into shadows, sitting for hours in the garden, staring afar. They speak of how he used to be, his love for music, for building puzzles, for telling lame jokes. They say in her family death does not creep up. It is abrupt. They cite her grandmother whose ulcer burst, an uncle who was shot, an uncle whose heart was pierced by a negligent surgeon, an uncle who in one moment took out the garbage cans and in the next had a massive heart attack, an uncle who contracted something deadly whilst in high care, an aunt who died of neglect, a cousin who died when a blood clot traveled to his heart, a cousin busying herself with life plans when her heart gave in, a cousin who died of a broken heart. They remind her to change her diet and go for morning walks. They speak of the candies, curries, and cakes that keep her weight yo-yoing. They speak of when she tried Atkins, Paleo, Weight Watches, Veganism, Ayurveda. They speak of the dresses she longs to wear and of the cute outfits she no longer wears. They speak of how she was once beautiful, a catch, the whole package and how she still is, but for the self-loathing. They say her self-loathing is seeping into the subconscious minds of her daughters. They say her lack of self-care and self-love will be her death. They say she is afraid to die.

Is fear of death a reason not to sleep?

Yes, they say, if one has an incurable or degenerative disease.

They say she could be the first member of her family to die of a lingering disease. They say she could end up in a wheelchair, unable to perform simple tasks like dressing, bathing, brushing her teeth, brushing her hair, applying lipstick. They say she could end up in a nursing home with only them for company. They say people will not believe what has become of her. They say her fear of people discovering she is not perfect keeps her awake at night. They say she does not have the perfect marriage, family, home, financial standing, health. They say her perfect façade is crumbling and the rubble and grime of her life are spewing through the cracks. They say her persistent pretense of perfection will kill, bury, and mourn her.     

Then they say: Free yourself from the prison of your own creation.

She asks: How?

And they fall silent.

The street lamp goes out. The mechanical roar of a garbage collection truck whirring through the suburb creeps closer. She wants to leave. But someone comes in.

She whispers: “No, not now, I have children to wake up, I have breakfast to make, I have lunches to prepare.”

But that someone is beside her, it is her five-year-old self. And next to her five-year-old self is her ten-year-old self and her fifteen-year-old self. They look forlorn, unloved. All she can muster is: “I’m sorry.” She cries into the pillow.

Voices at the top of the staircase call out: “Mama where are you?”

I am coming.

Her many selves remain beside her. She extends her hand, they take it, and like a chain, link to link, they ascend the staircase. In her other hand, the paper with the name and number of the therapist her husband sought out, saying: “Talk to someone.” Perhaps his way of saying he still loves her.