Properly speaking the unconscious is the real psychic its inner nature is just as unknown to us as the reality of the external world and it is just as imperfectly reported to us through the data of consciousness as is the external world through the indications of our sensory organs.
Hell was not a pit of fire and brimstone. Hell was waking up alone the sheets wet with your tears and your seed knowing the woman you had dreamed of would never come back to you.
Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive leaping across fragments of the day bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times which are like a ledger for her her body full of stories and situations.