Sleep was almost entirely impossible. When it happened, which wasn't often, his dreams were stifling. Empty. Black. Nothing. They were nothing, and that was worse than something. He was sure he was screaming in his sleep, he could feel the ache of that when he woke up.
He tried not to sleep.
He had a panic attack eating a bowl of soup. Had difficult drinking water, coffee, tea, juice. Anything. He had to work for it. It was awful. He was cold and hot and sweaty and clammy and everything was spinning and twirling and colorful and dark. His head ached and burst and stabbed and screamed.
The sound of static in his ears was terrible. Painful. Not as bad as the numbness in his fingers or the pains in his chest. The pains at the base of his skull.
But he didn't regret it.