Meditations of an Insomniac

I have a secret.

You think you know what I’m like, how I am. You think I’m healthy, because it was my job for so long and because I’ve helped so many others get healthy. You think I’m a hard worker, that I’m smart, that I’ve got my shit together.

If you’re really astute, maybe you notice that I seem moody sometimes. Impatient. Annoyed. Maybe this offends you.

Maybe, you think I’m a bitch.

Maybe all these things. Or none of them.

I can’t muster the energy or will to figure it out, because I have not slept through the night in almost two years.

This is my secret. Every single day, in every single interaction, I’m frontin’. Putting on a show. I’m doing my best to appear like a healthy, well-adjusted, fully awake young woman.

But the truth?

I AM SO. FUCKING. TIRED.

I’m not pretending to be deceitful. I want to be healthy, well-adjusted, fully awake. I want to get work done, and exercise, and have lovely interactions with you.

I squeeze every last drop of effort into going through the motions, because I refuse to let insomnia steal my life.

Insomnia is a raging, insatiable thief. No matter how many hours of sleep you lose, it keeps taking. No matter what you do, and try, and eat (or don’t eat), no matter how much you change your lifestyle, meditate, stretch, pray, write, drink (or don’t), read, breathe — it doesn’t care. Come 2AM, eyes open. Brain racing. Again, and again, and again.

Insomnia is the Groundhog’s Day of disorders.

Insomnia is an exercise in desperation and futility. It’s impossible to explain to your boss, or your sister, or your partner. Impossible to truly convey how it feels to not feel rested, ever. Why it justifies taking a sick day. (It justifies it, because a) I can hardly see straight, let alone have conversations and do stuff, and b) I’m not actually sure I can drive.)

I’ve never felt such desperation and despair as I do in the wee hours, when all I want to do is sleep, and I just can’t. I’ve cried and raged and thrashed in my bed. I even broke my glasses right in two one time, pounding my fist down on the bed (that was an AWESOME day, BTW.)

The Catch-22 is — all the things that supposedly help you sleep? Are exactly the things insomnia robs you of. Exercise requires energy. Eliminating caffeine makes a lot of sense, but how the fuck are you supposed to function without a little help?

I am a perfectionist. I believe that when there’s a problem, I have the means to fix it, which is another way of saying that when there’s a problem, I think it must be me.

Insomnia is trying its damndest to rid me of this belief. Because I have tried, and changed, all that there is to try and change, and I’m still awake.

I have to believe that this is happening for some reason. And if the reason isn’t some dietary adjustment, or that I just need to meditate, then maybe the reason is that I’m supposed to be awake.

I have to believe this, because constant despair and exhaustion is…well, exhausting. So if I’m supposed to be awake, then I’m right on target. Awake, I can do.

Sometimes, I have brilliant ideas at 3 AM. I see solutions to knotty problems I’ve wrestled with for days. I devise marketing strategies and funny facebook posts. I think of things to write about. Like insomnia.

Other times I think, I should just get up and organize my closet or something. Clean out my office. Read all those books sitting on my nightstand. Anything to avoid the dreaded wrestling match of trying to relax and breathe and fall asleep BUT CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT THING MY MOM SAID.

I’ve often considered getting up and writing, like a crazy tortured artist. Then I think, if I’m going to do that, maybe I should start smoking, too. Drinking coffee all day and wine all night. Shit — I’m already not sleeping. Might as well play the part.

I don’t do any of those things though, because in every early morning wake-fest, there’s a teeny tiny belief that this time, I’ll get back to sleep. Even now, sitting here, all bleary-eyed and foggy-brained, I think, maybe tonight. Maybe there’s something else to try, something I haven’t thought of.

So I work. And write. And move my body. I eat well and try to be nice to my cat (who’s always fucking sleeping, which makes it hard.) I smile at people, because it’s not their fault I can’t sleep. And miraculously, my zomb-i-fied ass makes it to the end of the day, every day.

Every night, I make my room pitch dark. I remove all electronics from the premises. I meditate in the mornings, and breathe at night like I’m in a damn Lemaze class.

I stretch, and think about the ocean. I inhale peace and exhale calm. I listen to some real weird sleep meditations. I imagine I’m a pat of melting butter. A single star among millions. A heavy brick, sinking to the bottom of a deep pond.

And every morning, I take stock. Did I sleep better, or worse? How many hours? Do I feel rested? (No.) Better than yesterday? (Sometimes.) Can I really do this, today?

Then I splash some cold water on my face, cover up my dark circles, and keep going.

Because, tonight. Tonight. Tonight.