GOTH IN THE CITY | Day Two | Sleep, Breathing, and Big Tooth Energy

DAY TWO: 6/1/25 

Holy shit, Batman. Last night was my second night without Lorazepam, and guess what? I think I finally hit that mythical "REM sleep" all those smug people at RESMED keep harping on about. Turns out, feeling safe in your environment might actually be a prerequisite for a decent night’s sleep. Who knew? Oh wait, literally everyone. Funny how this crucial tidbit of advice is conspicuously absent from the countless sleep apnea and insomnia articles I've devoured on YouTube at 3 AM. Maybe I’ll start my own medical journal: How Not to Sleep for Six Months and Still Look Fabulous.

But really, how important is sleep anyway? Ponders this question with the gravitas of Ben Stiller’s Blue Steel.

So here I am, sipping a caramel mocha at Espresso Lounge in Kingsgrove, feeling like Joan of Arc at a round table—minus the armor, but definitely with the battle scars. As I sit here, it hits me: Sex and the City really shaped me. Imagine what four confident older women can do to influence not just a gender, but an entire culture. Iconic, right?

This morning, I woke up feeling like a polar bear reluctantly emerging from hibernation. Heavy, sluggish, but oddly… alive. It’s a stark contrast to the way I’ve been waking up since my February 2024 hospitalization, when insomnia decided to become my unwanted roommate. Almost a year of untreated insomnia? Bravo, medical system. Slow clap.

After dragging myself out of bed, I was greeted with tea made by a man who’s basically a hybrid of Ken Barbie and Travis Fimmel. Hard life, I know. Then I moved on to a cacao concoction infused with turmeric and some other herbs I’ll definitely remember once my cognition returns to its rightful place (somewhere between Rob Zombie, Tim Burton, and Angelina Jolie, obviously).

Then came the Wim Hof breathing exercises with James. No guided video this time—just us. And let me tell you, I suck at playing dead. James, on the other hand, was out like a corpse in a goth-themed slumber party. This annoyed me because, let’s face it, I like being good at everything. So, new goal: master the art of holding my breath and basking in that exquisite limbo between life and death.

Post-breathwork, I walked 2 kilometers. Yep, lazy old me managed it. Had to stop at the chemist, though, for some thrush cream (TMI, I know, but hey, you were warned). Fun fact: every time I become "socially unstable," I get thrush. Coincidence? I think not. Clearly, my body and brain are in cahoots to make my life as entertainingly complicated as possible.

After all that, I fielded calls from Lydia (my social worker), my GP, and my dentist—who reminded me about the impacted wisdom tooth I’ve been too broke to deal with. Fun times. Apparently, removing it could mess with my ability to sing and speak, which, you know, would be kind of bad for someone who’s a singer. But could this tooth be the root (pun intended) of all my problems? Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion when I can afford to have it yanked out.

For now, that’s Day Two of my gothic Carrie Bradshaw recovery journey. Thanks for reading, and if you want to support me, maybe check out my merch. Your girl’s got bills to pay, wisdom teeth to extract, and a whole lot of self-healing to do.

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Bloody Kisses,

Avelina De Moray