Any Given Tuesday by Lis Smith

Author:Lis Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

Eight

In the Eye of the Storm

Eliot and I spent Christmas Day at my parents’ home in Bronxville. A half dozen reporters and photographers surrounded the house, where they’d been staked out for days. Inside, the atmosphere was markedly different from our normal, freewheeling, alcohol-fueled family holidays. It felt like we were all being suffocated by the elephant in (and outside) the room. The house, unfortunately, had floor-to-ceiling windows in both the living and dining rooms. So, whether we were opening presents or enjoying Christmas dinner, the photographers were always in view. Sure, they were one hundred feet away on the street, but it felt like they had crashed our party.

My family was as supportive as they could’ve been that day, but they snapped the next morning when they saw photos on the front page of both of the tabloids. My siblings and parents are very private people—they’d all managed to keep low profiles and had never had any interactions with the press. It was a total culture shock for them—tacky, tawdry, and invasive. And whose fault was it? Mine, of course. One by one they called or texted me to tell me what a shitty person I was for bringing this on them. If I’d thought things couldn’t have gotten worse, I was wrong.

It was the final straw for me emotionally. I was used to the ups and downs of political campaigns, the thrill of winning elections and dominating news cycles, as well as the devastation that would hit after a brutal loss. I was prepared for those moments—I’d be lying if I said that the drama wasn’t intoxicating, in fact. But through it all, I always assumed that I’d have the warm comfort blanket of my family to fall back on. Thankfully, the tabloid-induced strife would be short-lived.

The next few days were dark. I stopped eating and sleeping. My brain couldn’t shut down at night. It brought me back to my time living with Jeff and not being able to understand why he couldn’t sleep. His brain was humming, too, but it was with a sense of positivity and ambition. I remember thinking at the time that it was all in his head—which, well, it turns out it all is—but that anyone could sleep if they wanted to. His insomnia seemed almost like a selfish act—something that transformed him into a zombie and robbed me of the vivacious man I loved. But there I was, seven years later, watching the clock tick. One A.M. Two A.M. Three A.M. Four A.M. Five A.M. Sunrise. Unlike with Jeff, there was no manic optimism behind my sleep issues, only a sense of impending doom.

The insomnia was crippling. I was exhausted but unable to sleep. I tried all the tricks—counted sheep, ran through state capitals, read boring and great books—but nothing worked. I began to experience debilitating panic attacks—episodes where I’d alternate from feeling like I couldn’t breathe to dry heaving uncontrollably. No matter the hour, I was incapable of blocking out the negative thoughts that flooded my brain.

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