Sleep is Not For the Weak

Photo by Jackman Chiu on Unsplash

I nodded off in front of the screen again, laptop on my lap, some higher power looking over me to make sure that it didn’t slide down to the floor under my inert hands.

I do that a lot, I guess.

Elise caught me passed out, snoring and drooling on the couch when she came out to use the bathroom around eleven or so the other night.

Is it the winter, the depression, or am I just starting to feel getting older?

I used to have a hard time falling asleep at two in the morning, I would never feel tired enough to even want to get into bed, and now in the last few weeks I have been getting much more tired much earlier, and can’t decide whether that is something to worry about, or if it’s a good thing.

Taking care of my mental health, of course, is a good thing.

I’ve been working very hard for a very long time to get to some baseline state of “normal” that I think other people in the world might ascribe to.

You know, like a healthy kind of normal.

Not a boring normal, just a don’t ruminate about death so often normal.

Part of that, some say, is getting more than five or six hours of sleep each night.

On the other hand, I was writing, or at least, I was trying to write. I was doing that thing I do so often and so well, which is stare at a blank screen and try to will a story to unfold from my fingers.

Something more than poetry and blog posts, for once. Something with characters and a plot.

When am I going to get all this done if I can’t keep pushing through the night?

Sleep is for the weak, I used to say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

But no.

It looks like my body is taking over every once in a while, wrapping me in a trance, nodding me off, giving me what I need because I so often neglect giving what I need to myself.

There is one thing I’ve always appreciated about going to sleep early, though:

The sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I get to wake up and have a cup of coffee.


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