I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless...
It's kind of old news by now that I have been having trouble sleeping for the past few weeks. This is a trickier kind of insomnia than I've had before. Not that any kind of sleeplessness is a gift basket of sunshine and kittens and humbled ex-lovers, but I had at least learned to cope with the insomnia I had pretty severely in my 20s. At that time, I couldn't get to sleep easily, so I would stay up and write or study or watch terrible TV programs, most of which were selling products that they claimed were so amazing, I might just soil myself with disbelief and gratitude that they existed. After a few hours of this, I'd finally get sleepy enough and would go to bed. It wasn't ideal and it certainly wasn't pleasant, but there was some length of time each night when I was solidly unconscious.
The trouble I'm having lately is not getting to sleep so much as staying asleep long enough for REM to do its magical business. I start drifting in and out of consciousness around 1:00 or 2:00 am, and I'm mostly awake and anxious from 4:00 on. I've always been fascinated by the brain, particularly the subconscious and unconscious behaviors. The only thing I find more interesting than trying to find a reason for a particular dream, or psychosomatic reaction to something that didn't really happen, is knowing that there is almost always NOT A GOOD REASON. It's awesome. And horrible. Horribly awesome.
In the vein of Horribly Awesome, I now find myself in the unique position to be able to tell you, based on experience: if you've never been so exhausted that you can almost consciously experience the disconnected ride through various stages of a brain reboot, you might be missing out. It's something like being clothes-lined every time you turn a corner. Then had an air horn blasted right in your ear. Then you're kicked in the kidneys. And then ordered to recite the laws of thermodynamics. In Portuguese. Asshole.
The anxiety kicks in right around the time I start to be more conscious than not. This is the most explainable and most frustrating part of the night. Everyone who has had trouble sleeping before a big exam or a long trip knows that anxiety finds purchase easily in the spongy mess of a sleepy mind. It can feel as though every muscle in my body is locked up and electrified, while at the same time my brain is hanging slack from the top of my head like a deflated balloon. I can't relax enough to sleep, yet I can't find the energy to simply get out of bed. That's when my brain really goes haywire, grabbing anything nearby in my memory for me to obsess about. Really. Anything. One night I couldn't remember the name of the little fairy from "Legend" (Oona, by the way, GOD THE RELIEF). Another time, I was convinced that I was going to forget to pack a lunch for Taylor that morning and I spent an hour or two trying to come up with a visual cue that would remind me so my child would not starve to death. And a couple of nights ago, I couldn't shake the image that the Scottish guy from the Castrol ads was standing next to my bed, waiting for me to open my eyes so he could scream, "THINK WITH YOUR DIPSTICK, JIMMY" before smacking me across the forehead.
Dude. I know. You think I don't know? I do. It's stupid. It's so stupid, I want to turn to someone and say, "God, this is STUPID. Let's get out of here and go get doughnuts or something." And doughnuts are way better than the dipstick guy, no matter how much I love a good Scottish accent. Or a bad one, really. Like the dad in "So I Married an Axe Murderer" when he keeps talking about how big the kid's head is, and how he's going to cry himself to sleep on his huge pillow. That gets me every time. The rest of the movie, not so much. And really, even that accent has started to just remind me of "Shrek." Christ. That's a whole different nightmare, isn't it?
Wait. Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
I've found a way to deal pretty well with the strange looping anxiety. I do something I'm very good at. I make lists. I started with lists of basic information, like the cities I've visited, and the names Jen and I gave to our dolls when we were kids. Then I tried to make the lists more challenging and more useful to the overall health of my psyche. A couple of nights ago, I listed "Good Memories with Those I Love." Last night, I came up with a list of "Things That Make Me Proud of Myself." By the time I get out of bed the next morning, I don't remember the full lists, but I feel more centered. Not fully rested, but definitely balanced. I'm a cynic, often leaning toward fatalism, but those who know me well can attest that I'm sentimental at heart. So if my lists somehow get my heart and brain working in tandem, I'm not ashamed of the process. My lists are my duct tape and chicken wire. They hold me together. They keep me moving and tell me that there are things I must do, with or without sleep. They can remind me to be grateful, too. Especially at 4:00 in the morning, there's nothing wrong with that.
The trouble I'm having lately is not getting to sleep so much as staying asleep long enough for REM to do its magical business. I start drifting in and out of consciousness around 1:00 or 2:00 am, and I'm mostly awake and anxious from 4:00 on. I've always been fascinated by the brain, particularly the subconscious and unconscious behaviors. The only thing I find more interesting than trying to find a reason for a particular dream, or psychosomatic reaction to something that didn't really happen, is knowing that there is almost always NOT A GOOD REASON. It's awesome. And horrible. Horribly awesome.
In the vein of Horribly Awesome, I now find myself in the unique position to be able to tell you, based on experience: if you've never been so exhausted that you can almost consciously experience the disconnected ride through various stages of a brain reboot, you might be missing out. It's something like being clothes-lined every time you turn a corner. Then had an air horn blasted right in your ear. Then you're kicked in the kidneys. And then ordered to recite the laws of thermodynamics. In Portuguese. Asshole.
The anxiety kicks in right around the time I start to be more conscious than not. This is the most explainable and most frustrating part of the night. Everyone who has had trouble sleeping before a big exam or a long trip knows that anxiety finds purchase easily in the spongy mess of a sleepy mind. It can feel as though every muscle in my body is locked up and electrified, while at the same time my brain is hanging slack from the top of my head like a deflated balloon. I can't relax enough to sleep, yet I can't find the energy to simply get out of bed. That's when my brain really goes haywire, grabbing anything nearby in my memory for me to obsess about. Really. Anything. One night I couldn't remember the name of the little fairy from "Legend" (Oona, by the way, GOD THE RELIEF). Another time, I was convinced that I was going to forget to pack a lunch for Taylor that morning and I spent an hour or two trying to come up with a visual cue that would remind me so my child would not starve to death. And a couple of nights ago, I couldn't shake the image that the Scottish guy from the Castrol ads was standing next to my bed, waiting for me to open my eyes so he could scream, "THINK WITH YOUR DIPSTICK, JIMMY" before smacking me across the forehead.
Dude. I know. You think I don't know? I do. It's stupid. It's so stupid, I want to turn to someone and say, "God, this is STUPID. Let's get out of here and go get doughnuts or something." And doughnuts are way better than the dipstick guy, no matter how much I love a good Scottish accent. Or a bad one, really. Like the dad in "So I Married an Axe Murderer" when he keeps talking about how big the kid's head is, and how he's going to cry himself to sleep on his huge pillow. That gets me every time. The rest of the movie, not so much. And really, even that accent has started to just remind me of "Shrek." Christ. That's a whole different nightmare, isn't it?
Wait. Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
I've found a way to deal pretty well with the strange looping anxiety. I do something I'm very good at. I make lists. I started with lists of basic information, like the cities I've visited, and the names Jen and I gave to our dolls when we were kids. Then I tried to make the lists more challenging and more useful to the overall health of my psyche. A couple of nights ago, I listed "Good Memories with Those I Love." Last night, I came up with a list of "Things That Make Me Proud of Myself." By the time I get out of bed the next morning, I don't remember the full lists, but I feel more centered. Not fully rested, but definitely balanced. I'm a cynic, often leaning toward fatalism, but those who know me well can attest that I'm sentimental at heart. So if my lists somehow get my heart and brain working in tandem, I'm not ashamed of the process. My lists are my duct tape and chicken wire. They hold me together. They keep me moving and tell me that there are things I must do, with or without sleep. They can remind me to be grateful, too. Especially at 4:00 in the morning, there's nothing wrong with that.