This report on a very unique sufferer of Fatal Familial Insomnia is wild, man. (By the way, anything pertaining to FFI should come with a big content warning, especially in my experience right before bedtime.) And to think it came out in 2006, not long after I first developed a morbid interest in FFI. I had such a firm impression of sufferers of FFI becoming completely demented and uncommunicative and in tortuous misery after only a few months.
This guy wrote a book and drove hundreds of miles on almost no sleep, somehow. And people who cared about him let him do the driving, somehow. (And, to be fair, he did get to where he was trying to go and didn't get into an accident.) I recently had a 24-hour travel day after under 2 hours of sleep the night before and really didn't feel safe to drive by the end of it. This guy was made of some extraordinary stuff.
treatment resistant chronic insomnia really is the fucking worst because like. I take my sleep meds and sometimes, they work great! and I get like, 5-6 hours of uninterrupted sleep which still isn’t enough but it’s something. and other times, it just makes me loopy enough to misread texts and think that a piece of my hair is a bug, leading me to essentially slap myself in the face at 2am, but not fall asleep?
anywayssss I have to be awake in 7 hours for an appointment and then go to social security for name change shit so fingers crossed 🫡
Last night I went to bed at 9:30 (a normal time for me) and then did NOT fall asleep. Eventually looked at the clock, it was 12:30, alarm was set for 6, was not even sleepy, could not come up with an explanation for why this was happening (it happens to me sometimes but usually for some obvious reason). Reset alarm for 8, took drugs to make me sleep, eventually fell asleep, had a nightmare that someone had turned my shower on and I could not find who had done it and was screaming. Woke up in the morning, posted on Teams that I would be late "due to a medical appointment" (fortunately had no meetings until 11 today so it was fine), THEN saw last night's melatonin dose sitting on my placemat 😭 that's why
I am so freaking exhausted. like even after a 5 hour nap I want nothing more than to go back to bed and just sleep. I am so tired of having insomnia and the fact that nothing really helps to fix it. cause even if i get one good night’s sleep, i’m still fucking drained and tired and it just reverts back to the typical shitshow the night after.
i feel like a zombie again and trying to wade through drafts and asks feels like a chore. none of you are a chore don’t think that i’m forcing myself to write, i’m still doing drafts because i want to. but right now my entire body feels heavy and even with a monster i feel super spacey and out of it.
why does insomnia even have to be a thing? like. i deserve sleep too. i just. wanna sleep man. and wake up and not feel like i got hit by a truck after.
There’s Nothing More To It (I Just Get Through It)
Written for Febuwhump, Day 6: Insomnia
***
I. Martin
The Institute makes a lot of noises, at night.
That makes sense. It’s an old building. Perfectly normal to hear creaking in the walls, banging in the vents, humming in the pipes. And the noises aren’t particularly loud. Martin’s flat is a block away from a train station, so the Institute is practically silent in comparison.
None of the noises even sound particularly like knocking.
There’s no reason he should be sat upright, his back pressed into the corner of document storage, watching the door as if any moment it’s going to swing open and unleash a flood of worms on him.
The door is locked, he reminds himself. He’s sealed in. No monster, wormy or otherwise, can get him in here. It’s safe.
But—
If he goes to sleep, he might wake up to her knocking.
***
Martin isn’t a fan of coffee. Too bitter. When he pours himself a mug the next morning, he tries to drown the taste in milk. He won’t be able to get through the morning without at least a little caffeine.
He’d managed to snatch a short nap at his desk earlier while Tim and Sasha were coming in. It was… kind of soothing, hearing them move about. They’d kept their voices low for him, which he’d appreciated.
“Yikes, coffee?” Tim says, coming into the break room behind him. “I didn’t think you were the type.”
“I’m not,” Martin says, taking a sip and grimacing. Even tempered with the milk, it’s just—bad.
“Didn’t sleep well?”
Martin shakes his head.
“Nightmares? Or is the cot really that uncomfortable?”
Martin shrugs. He doesn’t want to worry Tim. “It’s just a little weird, sleeping here. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
***
He’s so exhausted by the end of the day that he falls asleep as soon as he falls into bed.
And—
There are worms flooding into his flat. He should have sealed everything up, he thought he already had, but he didn’t, and now the worms are closing in. His mother is—somewhere, oh god, are the worms going to get her too? He smashes them as they get too close, and their inky black blood squishes against his skin. But there are so many, and now they’re crawling, squirming, burrowing into his flesh, he’s becoming a hive, a thing like Jane Prentiss, and—
He wakes up, and before he’s even aware that he’s awake, he’s out of bed, scratching at his skin, trying to rid himself of the worms. He can feel them, crawling over his skin, but he can’t—
He blinks, his breathing starting to slow. It was a dream. Just a dream. There are no worms.
He flicks on the light just in case, inspects himself all over. Pulls the blankets off the cot, and shakes them out. There are no worms.
He sits down on the cot, his heart still hammering in his chest, still thinking about the worms. The burrowing—
Something makes a tap tap tap noise, and Martin freezes. It goes on for a long time, and Martin knows it’s her, knows that it’s the worms, knows that they are coming for him.
Then the noise stops. Just another one of those Institute noises. Air in the pipes, or something.
There are tears in Martin’s eyes now. He wishes he weren’t alone. It’s so much easier to be afraid, when you’re alone.
***
He starts buying energy drinks. He’s never been an energy drink person before. When he was a teenager, he’d read an article in one of his mother’s magazines about their adverse health affects, which had seemed serious enough to keep him from using them, even during those exhausting job-hunting years right after he dropped out.
Now that he lives in a world where flesh-hive worm monsters exist, he’s somewhat less concerned about taurine overdoses.
He doesn’t drink them at night. He doesn’t need them—between the noises and the nightmares and his traitorous imagination, he’s lucky if he gets half an hour of sleep anyway. But he can hardly sleep through work, so he drinks one in the morning, and two more throughout the day. They do their job. He doesn’t pass out at his desk.
He’s exhausted, of course. Even at the height of the energy-drink high, he only has a wobbly, sticky kind of energy. A thin veneer to hide how close he is to absolute collapse.
Three days in, Jon snaps at him about some unimportant filing discrepancy. It isn’t Martin’s fault, and Jon immediately apologizes, but Martin almost has a breakdown on the spot. He ends up spending fifteen minutes crying in the bathroom, feeling absolutely pathetic. He knows it’s the sleep deprivation, but Christ.
Four days in, he starts shaking, and he knows, he knows that’s a bad sign. He needs to get some real sleep. And he tries, he really does. During lunch, he takes a nap on the cot, hoping that it’ll give him something, at least. All it gives him is a migraine.
He tries to take tea to Jon, but he’s trembling so badly that he spills a bit over Jon’s desk, soaking a few documents. “Nothing important, thank goodness,” Jon says, but Martin still feels awful.
And now Jon is looking at him. Fantastic.
“Are you… alright, Martin?” Jon asks, sounding genuinely concerned, because apparently concern is something Jon just does now.
“I’m fine,” Martin sighs.
“Is—Is staying here alright? I know it isn’t the most comfortable but is it—”
“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin says, even managing a smile. “Thanks for letting me.” He doesn’t want to imagine how much worse this would be if he had to go back to his flat every night.
“Well,” Jon says, “You’re welcome, I suppose. But—never mind.” He shakes his head, turning back to his work. It’s a clear dismissal, and Martin goes. When he gets back to his desk, he rests his pounding head against the cool table. He needs to figure something out. This is not sustainable.
***
That night, after laying sleeplessly in bed for an hour, headache gradually getting worse, Martin gets up and goes to make himself tea. Usually, he’s too spooked by the darkness of the Archives to bother, but Jon is working late today, and there’s a reassuring crack of light under his door.
Martin gets his tea, starts to head back to document storage, and—stops. From the door to the break room, he can see Jon’s office. He looks over his shoulder, at the ratty couch pushed against the far wall.
He sets the tea down, and returns to document storage, grabbing the blanket and a pillow from the cot. Then he curls up on the couch, his head pillowed on the armrest, knees curled. It isn’t comfortable, and he will be aching tomorrow, but he can see the little crack of light from Jon’s office. He knows he isn’t alone. He—.
He’s asleep before he can even finish the thought.
***
II. Jon
When Martin starts to decline after he starts sleeping in document storage, Jon notices. He notices the first day, when Martin can barely keep his eyes open. He notices the energy drinks that start appearing in the break room fridge. He notices the way Martin’s reaction time slows, the way he loses track in conversations more quickly, the way his face drops at the first sign of strife.
Jon doesn’t know what to do about it. Martin clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, isn’t comfortable coming to Jon for help. Martin is an adult. If he wants to deal with this by downing energy drinks until he inevitably crashes, it’s hardly Jon’s place to stand in his way.
He just…
It’ll kind of be his fault, when Martin crashes. Won’t it?
He stays late at the Institute. He’s been trying to avoid that, trying to give Martin his privacy, but… the Archives really are a mess. Jon can’t avoid staying a few hours after everyone else leaves.
Around ten-thirty, he gets ready to head out. Gathers up a few files to take home with him, puts his jacket on, and then heads to the break room to put his mug in the sink.
He clicks on the light, and startles so badly he nearly drops his mug.
Martin is asleep on the couch.
Why is Martin asleep on the couch?
Sure, the cot isn’t exactly comfortable, but it is leagues better than that ancient, sagging thing. Martin hardly even fits on it!
Jon stares at him for a long moment. He’s brought a pillow out here, and is wrapped up in Jon’s blanket, snoring softly. He looks… peaceful, even if the position he’s curled up in looks distinctly uncomfortable.
He didn’t even stir when Jon so rudely flicked the light on, although… it hardly would have been Jon’s fault, if he had. Martin would’ve known that Jon was still here when he decided to set up camp here. He would have had to see the light under Jon’s door.
Oh.
Jon suddenly understands, and it’s so obvious that he wants to kick himself for not figuring it out sooner, days ago.
Of course Martin would feel scared, being all by himself down here. He’d been alone for two weeks! Of course Martin would want the assurance of other people around!
Jon sets up his laptop on the break room table, and then after some consideration goes to get his desktop lamp from his office. He flicks off the overhead light and keeps working. Martin doesn’t stir.
Around three, Jon packs up and goes to sleep in document storage. After some deliberation, he leaves the lamp on. He doesn’t want Martin to wake up alone and in the dark. Not again.
***
The next night, about ten minutes after Jon hears Martin close the door to document storage, Jon heads over. “Martin?” he calls.
After a moment, Martin opens the door. “Yes?”
“Sorry to intrude,” Jon says. “I just need to retrieve some files. You can go back to sleep. I’ll lock the door behind me.”
Martin looks—a little bit annoyed, to be honest, but he lets him in, and the he just—sits on the bed, watching.
“You can go back to sleep,” Jon says, grabbing a file box and pretending to look through it.
“It’s only nine. I can just wait until you’re done.”
This isn’t right at all. Jon can’t leave until Martin is asleep, reassured by another person’s presence. Jon thinks for a moment, then sits on the floor, taking files out of the box one-by-one.
“What are you doing?” Martin says. He sounds tired. Exactly why he should just go to sleep.
“I’m—sorting,” Jon says.
“Do you have to do that in here?”
“Yes,” Jon says.
“Then—” Martin lets out a sigh. “Can’t you just do it tomorrow? You’re already working four hours overtime, and it’s not like the files are going anywhere. And I am trying to sleep.”
“I—” Martin looks serious, frowning at him. Jon wilts. “Alright. I guess I’ll just—” He puts the box on the shelf and leaves, and before he can turn and say something else, Martin has shut and locked the door behind him.
***
Martin doesn’t sleep well, that night. Jon can tell, because the next day he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and two of his energy drinks disappear from the fridge before the day is over.
That night, Jon tries a different tack. He goes to document storage after Martin has gone to bed, this time with a mug of tea in his hand. Chamomile. He’d read that it was good for sleeping.
“I brought you tea,” Jon says defensively, before Martin can snap anything at him.
“Oh,” Martin says. He looks vaguely confused, but he takes it.
Jon just stares at Martin. There’s a deep exhaustion in his eyes, and it makes Jon ache.
“Well… goodnight, then,” Martin says.
“Um. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. Right down the hall.”
“Okay?” Martin says.
“And—and I probably won’t go home tonight. So, so even if it’s really late, I’ll still be here.”
Martin opens his mouth. “Jon, you need to go home.”
“No, I don’t.”
Martin laughs, slightly, in a horrified way. “Yes. You definitely do. You need to sleep!”
“No, you need to sleep!” Jon snaps.
There’s silence for a moment, and Jon backpedals. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—It’s none of my business. I just—never mind.”
Obviously Martin doesn’t want his help. Obviously. Jon is the one who caused all this, why would Martin want him?
“Jon, what is this about?” Martin says.
“You aren’t sleeping,” Jon says, a bit desperately. “And I know it helps when you have someone else around. So—”
“You’re trying to be around,” Martin finishes. Something in his face softens. “Listen, Jon, I really appreciate the concern, but you can’t just stay here with me 24/7. You need sleep, too.”
Jon taps his finger against his leg several times, thinking. “What if I got a second cot?”
Martin laughs. “Jon, the first cot barely fits.”
“No, you’re right,” Jon says, still thinking. “But what if—What if you came to my flat?” It’s the perfect solution, isn’t it? He’s shocked he didn’t think of it already.
“Jon, I can’t intrude on you like that—”
“It’s not an intrusion,” Jon says. “Not at all.” It is his fault, after all. “You can take my couch. It’s—it’s nicer than the one in the break room.”
Martin opens his mouth, seemingly to protests again.
“Martin, I’m not going home unless you’re with me,” Jon says, planting his feet. “We can stay here, or we can stay at my flat, but I’m—I’m not leaving you alone.”
Martin hesitates, then buckles. “I—Okay.”
***
III. Martin
Martin cannot believe this is happening. He’s in Jon’s flat. Jon is making up the sofa for him. Jon—noticed that he was having trouble, figured out the cause, and went out of his way to fix it.
It… makes Martin pretty emotional, to be honest.
Jon shows him the bathroom, and then wishes him goodnight, heading down the hall towards his bedroom. He leaves the door open.
Martin lays down on the couch, beneath the pile of blankets Jon gave him. His body aches with exhaustion, but it’s... cozy. For the first time since Prentiss, he truly feels relaxed.
Martin sleeps soundly, and he doesn’t have nightmares.
▐▐ ░ * . — MIHAEL KEEHL’S EYES - OR RATHER , MELLO’S - always have held a certain fire in them that alludes to a constant drive , never-ending passion - the infinite fuel of his inner machine that makes it so he will never lack enough to keep going . and even so now , when that fire’s dimmed with dark circles under the eyes and a strangely quiet air ( because in truth , mello’s sharp tongue never holds itself back , even if he isn’t the biggest chatterbox ) , it burns - more so though in the forms of embers than scorching flames . he’s not killed , but one can tell he’s tired , hoping that the biker sunglasses over darkened hues will cover up the evidence his sleep schedule’s been abnormal . of course , it always has , but he at least tries to take care of himself in snippets . but then he seems to BETRAY himself , biting on a freshly unwrapped chocolate bar and cracking his fingerless gloves knuckles , rolling up the sleeves of a leather jacket & quipping , ❝ i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours . i’m at that stage where i’m starting to taste colors & shit . ❞ he lifts the chocolate bar as he bites off a chunk , adding , ❝ this ?? pink vibes . ❞ a long pause , he takes a long sigh , lifting up the orange-tinted sunglasses and looking his company in the eye . ❝ how bad do i look - how easy is it to tell that i’m fucking exhausted . c’mon , be honest with me . ❞
Following the Calamity’s defeat, Link had such a bad case of insomnia. He’d fall asleep for a short time only to wake up in a jolt thinking he had to do something.
While defeating the Calamity has always been the goal, living in a world free of its presence was surreal. This ever-looming threat was always over Link’s head. Everything he did on his journey was with the task in mind “Defeat Ganon.” And without Ganon, what does he do now?
It was hard for him to just wind down and actually accept he did it. Zelda is free. Ganon is sealed away. Hyrule will be safe. It’s what he always wanted, but living that reality was just such a shock to his system.
