Seven Sleepless Nights: How My Husband’s Insomnia Tore Our Family Apart

“You haven’t slept in days, Mark. Please, just try to rest,” I pleaded, my voice trembling as I stood in the doorway of our dimly lit bedroom. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, his hands shaking, eyes bloodshot and wild. He stared past me, as if I were a ghost.

“I can’t sleep, Anna. I can’t even close my eyes without feeling like I’m drowning,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 AM. Our daughter Emily was asleep down the hall, blissfully unaware that her father was unraveling before my eyes.

It started a week ago. Mark came home from work late, tossing and turning all night. At first, I thought it was just stress—his job at the bank had been overwhelming lately. But as the days passed, he stopped sleeping altogether. He grew irritable, snapping at me over nothing. He barely spoke to Emily. The man I married—the steady, gentle soul who once sang lullabies to our daughter—was slipping away.

On the fourth night, Mark stormed out after an argument about his refusal to see a doctor. “You think I’m crazy?” he shouted. “I just need some space!” He slammed the door so hard that Emily woke up crying.

The next morning, he was gone. No note. No text. Just his side of the closet emptied out and his phone switched off. I called his mother in desperation. She answered on the second ring.

“Anna? Is everything okay?”

“Mark’s missing,” I choked out. “He hasn’t slept in days and now he’s just… gone.”

There was a pause. “He’s here,” she said quietly. “He showed up last night. He’s not himself, Anna.”

I wanted to scream at her—why hadn’t she called me? But all I could do was sob into the phone.

The days that followed were a blur of exhaustion and fear. Emily kept asking where Daddy was. I lied at first—”He’s working late, honey.” But soon she saw through it.

One evening, as I tucked her into bed, she whispered, “Did Daddy stop loving us?”

My heart shattered. “No, baby,” I said, forcing a smile. “Daddy’s just sick right now.”

But inside, I wondered if it was true. Was this really just insomnia? Or had something broken inside Mark that couldn’t be fixed?

I tried calling him every day. Sometimes his mother answered and told me he was sleeping—finally—but wouldn’t talk to anyone. Other times, there was only silence.

I replayed our last conversation over and over in my mind:

“You’re scaring me, Mark,” I’d said.

“I’m scaring myself,” he replied, voice cracking.

I remembered how he used to hold me when I cried, how he’d promised we’d always face things together. Now, I felt abandoned—left to carry the weight of our family alone.

Bills piled up on the kitchen table. Emily’s teacher called about her sudden withdrawal at school. My own job performance slipped as I struggled to keep up with everything.

One night, after Emily finally fell asleep clutching her stuffed bear, I sat alone in the living room and let myself break down completely. The house felt empty without Mark’s laughter or his off-key singing in the shower.

I thought about driving to his mother’s house—demanding answers—but something held me back. Pride? Fear? Maybe both.

A week passed before Mark finally called.

“Anna,” he said quietly.

I almost didn’t recognize his voice.

“Mark? Where are you? Emily misses you so much. I miss you!”

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t handle it anymore. The pressure at work, the sleepless nights—I felt like I was losing my mind.”

Tears streamed down my face as I listened.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you leave us?”

He hesitated. “I thought you’d be better off without me falling apart in front of you and Emily.”

“We’re a family! We’re supposed to help each other!” My voice broke.

There was a long silence before he spoke again.

“I want to come home,” he whispered.

But could we go back to how things were? Could love survive this kind of betrayal?

Mark returned two days later, looking older and frailer than when he left. Emily ran into his arms, sobbing with relief. For a moment, it felt like maybe we could heal.

But things weren’t magically fixed. Trust had been broken; wounds ran deep. We started therapy—together and separately—trying to piece our lives back together one fragile day at a time.

Some nights, when Mark still struggles to sleep, I lie awake beside him and wonder: How do you forgive someone for leaving when you needed them most? Can love really be rebuilt after it’s been shattered?

Maybe there are no easy answers—but maybe that’s what makes us human.