It was ten o'clock which was bedtime. It had always been our bedtime. The time where lights went off, phones away, and our minds were left to drift astray. I share a room with my younger sister, who I would chat with until her words became slurred, and her quiet snores filled the silent air. The clock hit 10:20pm. While she slept soundly, I stared at my ceiling. My mind is not capable of being calm, my eyes not capable of closing, and my body not capable of sleep. Sometimes, I feel exhausted. Other nights, I don't feel phased at all. Tonight was an even mix of the two. I felt slightly tired but could not sleep because I know the monster under my bed and it's name is Insomnia. The clock hits 3am. It's different each night. Sometimes, time flies. Others, not so much. The hours felt like decades this particular night. I spent the endless hours pondering my mistakes because not only was Insomnia under my bed, but anxiety was peeking out of my closet. I lay there powerless, not able to drift off into the world of dreams that my sister would tell me about in the morning. Instead of being stuck in a nightmare, running from an imaginary creature, I am stuck in my horrifying reality, running from my mental illness. Instead of wondering “is this a dream”, I'm wondering “when will this nightmare called life end?”. I'm going over every worse case scenario of how tomorrow can go. Four AM. I'm still awake. Who knew my ceiling had so many dots? 6,000 in counting. That's only in my peripheral vision. 5am. I have to be awake in an hour for school. 5:30am. I still haven't gotten an inch of sleep and the light of the sky is peeking through my blinds, reminding me that even when I feel empty, or stuck, the world around me still goes on. 6 AM. My alarm is beeping, my sister now stirring in her sleep. I hear her bed creek, signaling that she's getting up, so I pretend to be asleep. No one knows about my Insomnia. If I were to tell them, what could they do? Take me to therapy, put me on pills? I know that scenario all too well because when I told my parents about my anxiety, those were the exact steps they took. After therapy failed to work, they claimed I was faking, and never picked up another prescription again. I hated that, and I refuse to let that happen again. My sister wakes me up and I pretend as if I hadn't been up all night. I later went to school. I worked hard, took tests, and acted as if I'd gotten sleep. When someone asks how I am, I'll say “I'm fine”, but I really do wish they could read my mind.