Paradoxical Insomnia
For all the time I've been struggling with insomnia, I had never heard of "paradoxical insomnia" until Michael Covington recently called it to my attention.
Sleep is a weird business from top to bottom. I've encountered a lot of that weirdness, especially since 2001, when my company began to implode. I've never been a strong sleeper, but after that I began having nights when I might sleep for no more than an hour...
...or so it seemed at the time.
One of the weirdnesses of the post-Coriolis era is that, for as little as I thought I slept, I seemed to do reasonably well during the day. I certainly wasn't at my best, but for the most part I wasn't falling asleep in my chair. I wonder now if I experienced paradoxical insomnia, which is an unusual sleep disorder in which patients feel like they have slept little (or not at all) when in fact they slept adequately, if not normally. In paradoxical insomnia, a patient perceives time spent awake incorrectly. He or she might feel like it takes an hour or more to fall asleep when in fact it took only a few minutes. Early-morning awakenings during which hours seem to pass may again span only a few minutes. The condition is poorly understood. Researchers now think that patients are dreaming that they're awake. This may seem bizarre to people who sleep normally, but let me tell you, I understand completely.
Here's why: In my case, at least, the border between wakefulness and dreaming is rubbery. I've had some success with a technique I read in one book or another, which involves imagining some quiet activity that reflects daily life. Counting sheep may work for people who live and work with sheep. I've seen live sheep half a dozen times in my life, and you can have 'em. What works for me is imagining things like taking walks, sorting books on bookshelves, and having boring conversations with unexceptional people. Although I have "interesting" dreams about one shot in ten (along with the very occasional lulu) the vast majority of my dreams are very much like that: walking alone or sometimes with a nameless companion, or doing domestic things of little consequence, like taking towels out of the washing machine and putting them in the dryer.
I know that the technique works because a time or two I recall sliding from guided meditation into a dream without any change of scenery. I know that it was a dream because it stopped following the script. Here's the best example: Jeff and a nameless and poorly imagined female companion are walking down a country road on a generic summer evening, talking about dumb stuff. No mosquitoes.
JEFF: Hey, there's a sycamore tree! I like sycamore trees.
COMPANION: Me too.
JEFF: My grandfather planted one in the back yard when I was a kid. It had the biggest damned leaves.
COMPANION: I remember those.
JEFF: And seed balls. We used to throw them at each other.
COMPANION: That must have been fun.
JEFF: It was. We used to be able to burn the leaves in the street.
COMPANION (Turning): Jeff, what do you want most from God?
JEFF: Unconditional love.
Bzzzzt! In my directed meditations my imaginary companions do not ask me questions. So when my imaginary companions begin taking control, I know (in hindsight) that I'm dreaming.
In the grim days after Coriolis went under, I had plenty of experience lying awake much of the night and staring at the wall. At some point it became part of ordinary life, and thus completely unremarkable dream-fodder. I also seem to slide from conscious thought into dream states very smoothly. This is why dreaming about lying awake is no stretch at all, and may have continued long after I had gotten over the loss. It may continue to this day. Short of monitoring my own brain waves, I'm not sure how to tell.
But boy, it's probably better than talking beavers.