Affirmation
Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 9, 2002
- Posts
- 47
Insomnia, eh?
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."
-Robert Frost
Outside my window, a police car is cruising by; the watchmen are keeping watch on my neighbourhood. I see the bright headlights approach, draw near, and move off. A young woman is stood by the phone box. She is chain-smoking, furtively checking the phone, as if willing it ring. A cat slinks across a low wall. Nothing else moves. It is 2:00am and the city is asleep. But not me. I cannot sleep. It’s 2:00am, and I cannot sleep.
I’ve been suffering from insomnia for most of my life. Even as a schoolkid I found it difficult to sleep through the night. I’d wake-up at 3:00am and rub my bleary eyes, fumble around for the torch I kept on my bedside table. Then I’d spend the rest of the early morning reading by torchlight; the dim circle of light picking out the words that transported me away from my bedroom, my insomnia, to far and distant lands – to Narnia, Transylvania, Slaughterhouse 5, Treasure Island, Middle Earth; to Where the Wild Things Are. When I grew too tired to read, or I’d finished my book, I’d write my own stories; the pencil lazily sketching the contents of my sleepy imagination.
These days I have more sophisticated entertainments to fill my heavy-eyed evenings: I can watch late night TV or the video of my choice (ladies, please send me your home movies!). I can listen to the radio (late night Radio 2 seems remarkably tailored to my tastes; “Hello to all you Night Owls out there. Here’s a blues number, just for you…” breathes a husky female voice. Cue sexy saxophone…) I can log on to the Internet and lose myself in Cyberspace – the closest thing possible to living in another reality. But despite all those options, more often than not I still find myself buried in a book, or putting pen to paper.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines insomnia as “habitual sleeplessness”. In my case, I think it would be more accurate to describe my condition as “habitual grumpiness”, for I find that the most disagreeable side effect of my insomnia is that I tend to be a bit short-tempered after several nights without sleep. But then, several people think that I’m a grumpy bastard anyway, so perhaps it’s not that big a deal.
There’s a Stephen King book called Insomnia, and never has a book been more ironically titled ‘cause it sent me to sleep on page one. Other things guaranteed to make me nod off for a few minutes are soap operas, rugby matches, Star Trek, relationship dramas, and sixteen pints of beer. I have developed immunity to sleeping tablets, hot milky drinks and athletic sex – all the things that my GP (I’ll write about him some day) recommends for a good night’s sleep. I keep suggesting the athletic sex option to my partner, but she’s wise to my devious ways, alas.
I read somewhere that 3:00am is the time when people are at their most vulnerable and open to suggestion. It’s also the time when people start getting introspective. I can understand that. I think I’m probably too introspective for my own good – long silent, lonely hours spent rummaging around in my heart, in my psyche. My faults and my failures, my shortcomings and my inadequacies are dragged into the spotlight. I long for sleep, for release, for rest.
Sometimes I risk going for a walk. It’s a strange feeling, walking down lonely, empty streets, feeling like a ghost, lost in my thoughts. But its too dangerous to be out there for too long, so I also come home after half an hour or so; returning with a feeling of relief that my nocturnal wandering was uneventful, that I am safe, and grateful to be back inside, in the warm.
And as soon as I hang up my coat and remove my shoes, I climb the stairs as silently as possible and I look in on my children. As I stand in the doorway, watching them sleep, all those introspective thoughts just melt away, lost in a tide of love for them. I vow to keep them safe, to make them happy, to always be there for them. I kiss my children and return downstairs to wait for sunrise. Another night is over.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."
-Robert Frost
Outside my window, a police car is cruising by; the watchmen are keeping watch on my neighbourhood. I see the bright headlights approach, draw near, and move off. A young woman is stood by the phone box. She is chain-smoking, furtively checking the phone, as if willing it ring. A cat slinks across a low wall. Nothing else moves. It is 2:00am and the city is asleep. But not me. I cannot sleep. It’s 2:00am, and I cannot sleep.
I’ve been suffering from insomnia for most of my life. Even as a schoolkid I found it difficult to sleep through the night. I’d wake-up at 3:00am and rub my bleary eyes, fumble around for the torch I kept on my bedside table. Then I’d spend the rest of the early morning reading by torchlight; the dim circle of light picking out the words that transported me away from my bedroom, my insomnia, to far and distant lands – to Narnia, Transylvania, Slaughterhouse 5, Treasure Island, Middle Earth; to Where the Wild Things Are. When I grew too tired to read, or I’d finished my book, I’d write my own stories; the pencil lazily sketching the contents of my sleepy imagination.
These days I have more sophisticated entertainments to fill my heavy-eyed evenings: I can watch late night TV or the video of my choice (ladies, please send me your home movies!). I can listen to the radio (late night Radio 2 seems remarkably tailored to my tastes; “Hello to all you Night Owls out there. Here’s a blues number, just for you…” breathes a husky female voice. Cue sexy saxophone…) I can log on to the Internet and lose myself in Cyberspace – the closest thing possible to living in another reality. But despite all those options, more often than not I still find myself buried in a book, or putting pen to paper.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines insomnia as “habitual sleeplessness”. In my case, I think it would be more accurate to describe my condition as “habitual grumpiness”, for I find that the most disagreeable side effect of my insomnia is that I tend to be a bit short-tempered after several nights without sleep. But then, several people think that I’m a grumpy bastard anyway, so perhaps it’s not that big a deal.
There’s a Stephen King book called Insomnia, and never has a book been more ironically titled ‘cause it sent me to sleep on page one. Other things guaranteed to make me nod off for a few minutes are soap operas, rugby matches, Star Trek, relationship dramas, and sixteen pints of beer. I have developed immunity to sleeping tablets, hot milky drinks and athletic sex – all the things that my GP (I’ll write about him some day) recommends for a good night’s sleep. I keep suggesting the athletic sex option to my partner, but she’s wise to my devious ways, alas.
I read somewhere that 3:00am is the time when people are at their most vulnerable and open to suggestion. It’s also the time when people start getting introspective. I can understand that. I think I’m probably too introspective for my own good – long silent, lonely hours spent rummaging around in my heart, in my psyche. My faults and my failures, my shortcomings and my inadequacies are dragged into the spotlight. I long for sleep, for release, for rest.
Sometimes I risk going for a walk. It’s a strange feeling, walking down lonely, empty streets, feeling like a ghost, lost in my thoughts. But its too dangerous to be out there for too long, so I also come home after half an hour or so; returning with a feeling of relief that my nocturnal wandering was uneventful, that I am safe, and grateful to be back inside, in the warm.
And as soon as I hang up my coat and remove my shoes, I climb the stairs as silently as possible and I look in on my children. As I stand in the doorway, watching them sleep, all those introspective thoughts just melt away, lost in a tide of love for them. I vow to keep them safe, to make them happy, to always be there for them. I kiss my children and return downstairs to wait for sunrise. Another night is over.
