TheBanyanTree: Tales of an insomniac

[Monique Colver]

Ah, the plight of the insomniac. I have, in the past, been subjected to
seemingly endless times of staring at the ceiling waiting for sleep to
overtake me. I tried emptying my brain, which resulted only in more urgent
issues cropping up to overtake the emptiness. My brain does not enjoy an
empty state and will do whatever it needs to do to fill it back up again.

Counting sheep does not do it for me either. I spend my days with numbers,
counting, or adding, or subtracting, multiplying, dividing, or just listing
them in neat little rows to show how someone has, or has not, made a profit.
I even count words, how many words to an article, how many in a manuscript,
how many in a sentence? Tell me something in a few short words and I will
parse it out to count the letters, in threes, to see if it meets my inner
standards.

When I was growing up my father always took Excedrin PM at night before
going to bed. He claimed it kept him from having a headache in the morning.
I don't know if this is true or not, or if he just thought it did. Many of
my father's acts weren't exactly rational. But it worked for him. Of course,
it also ensured that there was a nearly full bottle of Excedrin PM laying
around when I decided to empty the bottle into myself. I suppose I'm quite
fortunate he wasn't on a narcotic instead.

And now I, like my father, rely on my nightly analgesic. Tylenol PM, or
Advil PM if I want a change of pace. It has to be the PM version of course,
or there's no point to it. Taken every night with my other medications that
keep me physically able to withstand life (and what a long list it's turning
out to be!), it ensures that I have no trouble falling asleep, even with a
dog sleeping on my head.

I do wake up at night, usually because either I, or Ash, or possibly Honey,
though not as likely, has to use the facilities. It's convenient if both Ash
and I need to at the same time, though for him I must actually go
downstairs. But afterwards we all fall back asleep easily, secure in our
empty bladders and soft beds.

I love my sleep, and not only because it helps my body heal from whatever
damage I've done to it during the day, which may include just living my
life. But also because of the stories my dreams tell me, the surreal plots,
the vivid imagery, the release of so many different experiences and
not-experiences that collide into a fabulous chaos of entertainment.
Occasionally the dreams are bad, but not very often. Usually they're madcap,
sometimes interconnected, sometimes not, and in the end they may not make a
whole lot of sense, but somehow, in the midst of it all, they make sense to
me. Once I awake putting the dreams into any kind of context is hopeless,
the story seems to slip away in the those first few seconds of my mind
waking up, and I'm left with bits and pieces of imagery, dialogue, scenes,
and any effort to make sense of it makes them fade away that much faster.
Usually I can relate a particularly amusing bit that has relevance in my
waking life, but it's only a small piece of the entire experience.

I don't miss the days of insomnia. I don't miss saying, "I can't sleep, not
ever!" though it would garner for me a certain amount of sympathy. "You poor
dear," people would say, "You must be exhausted!"

"Oh, I am," I would say, "I certainly am."

I would explain that my mind just could not shut down, so full was it of
everything I had to do and everything there was to think of in life, and
people would shake their heads, sad for me and my busy brain.

No, this way is much better. I can be accused of sleeping too much, and as a
society we frown on those who are lazy and lie-a-beds, but that's okay. I
can live with that, if I can spend comfortable nights asleep with my family
close by, living experiences that will happen only in the deepest sleep.


Monique

On Sun, Jul 10, 2011 at 2:39 AM, Russ Doden <russ.doden at gmail.com> wrote:

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