exciting, informative, snarky, and very likely fabricated tales of life as an american expat in london

zombie

by Jen at 8:28 pm on 28.04.2010Comments Off
filed under: mundane mayhem

at what point does a person with insomnia become an “insomniac”?

this is a question i’ve been thinking about a lot lately, as i enter my sixth month of sleep struggles. just the thought of that label brings a stricture of anxiety up into my chest.

insomnia makes you feel alien, other. freakish. that everyone else can take for granted something that comes so naturally to them, and can’t understand why it’s so difficult for you, feels almost psychologically traumatic as you lie awake in the wee hours of the morning, next to a peacefully slumbering partner.

you begin to doubt your own sanity, to play mind games with yourself.

iwon’tlookattheclockiwon’tlookattheclockiwon’tlookattheclock.

or:

the striped pillowcase helps me fall asleep.

or:

i’ll think of a time when i didn’t have any trouble falling asleep

or:

i’ll think about anything *but* trying to sleep

you lie there, trying to be motionless, straining to relax, hearing your heartbeat thud in your ears, willing your brain to tumble ever so gently off the edge of the cliff of consciousness. and you finally begin to get drowsy, you finally begin to drift ever closer towards the tipping point, and then… in your last moments, you become aware that “aha! i’m finally falling asleep!”…

…which of course, wakes you up.

and each night that sleep doesn’t come, the dread of bedtime multiplies. as you stumble groggily through the days in a foggy haze of semi-alertness, you can think of nothing but how tired you are, how zombie-like you feel, how blissful it would be to rest your head on a soft, cool pillow in a dark, quiet, peaceful room and fall into a deep well of refreshing sleep. yet the more tired you become, the higher the stakes get every evening – surely tonight you simply *have* to sleep. you simply can’t continue to *not* sleep. and every night, the crushing fear of not sleeping continues to build.

you try light pyjamas and warm baths and earplugs. you follow all the rules about going to bed at the same time, about not eating too late, or drinking caffeine. you try melatonin and valerian and magnesium and camomille. you try over the counter tablets and doctor prescribed drugs. you try combinations of all of the above. sometimes something will work for an evening. sometimes nothing works.

this cycle goes on and on, until every few weeks, the desperation and anxiety and pressure and overwhelming exhaustion get to the core of me, and somewhere between night and dawn, i crack.

hysteria sets in. i scream at the ceiling, i wail, i babble incoherently – i get carried away by the waves of frustration and bone-weariness until i am a blithering, blubbering mess of tears and snot quivering in the dark. jonno tries to comfort and console me but his very *existence* as a normal sleeper feels like a personal affront. all i can focus on is my intense craving for sweet, unconscious oblivion and mad thoughts of slamming my head into a wall run rampant through my brain.

i feel utterly, out-of-control insane.

until, in the ultimate cruel irony, these bouts usually knock me out. through swollen eyes and stuffed nose, i sleep the sleep of the dead.

and when after actually sleeping, i awake, a small bubble of hope rises with the sun. maybe i’ve broken the cycle, maybe i can somehow claw my way back towards some semblance of rested normalcy. maybe my bout of insomnia is over. maybe i’m not doomed to flail sleeplessly amongst the bedsheets forever.

because i can’t be an insomniac. i just can’t.


for more on the world of insomnia, i highly recommend the “all-nighters” series in the new york times. i must admit, however, i can’t even bring myself to read them all – they make me too anxious.

1 person likes this post.
Comments Off

Comments are closed.