January 11, 2018.
I had a difficult night.
I went to see The Room, the actual film that The Disaster Artist is inspired by on 42nd Street. The experience of being in a movie theatre watching this film is akin to Rocky Horror Picture Show: it’s an interactive experience. There’s talk back, there’s spoon throwing, there’s football throwing. I was thrilled. However, the theatre itself was warm as fuck. The heat was pumped way high. I am already suspicious of my fluctuating body temperature, but being in a movie theatre were the indoor temperature was set at 80 degrees was confusing. I was hot, I took off my layers, I was still hot. I pulled my hair up, I used my cell phone to wave warm air upon my face, I drank every drop of water I had available to me. I was relieved when the movie was over, not because of the movie, but because I wanted to get out of there. The air outdoors was midtown Manhattan-esque; bustling and balmy at 44 degrees. I could breathe. I hailed a taxi, went home.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was lay down. Be in my bed. Close my eyes. Still, I had some things to do. I was distracted, I walked my dog, I got into bed with my boyfriend. He opened the window in my room a bit. I rolled off the top duvet, we slept with one blanket. I was frankly exhausted. And yet. While my boyfriend lay beside me, sound asleep, and my dog lay under the covers, between our bodies, I was awake. I was awake. I went to the bathroom several times. How many? I lost count. I was naked. I was dressed. I was naked. I was dressed. Throughout all this, my body was hot. Not the way it was warm in the theater, where the perspiration was targeted—the armpits, the nape of my neck, like that. No. Being in bed last night? The heat was percolating. I was not sweating, I was simply hot. Just hot.
This is the Pause. It’s keeping me up at night. Erratic sleep, is a hallmark. As I type this, my migraine is creeping in; I need to sleep. This, I know. I just don’t know how to win this battle.