The Nightmare of Sleeping Badly
Since birth, I've been a "bad sleeper." Mom would work for hours when I was an infant to get me down, just to have the slightest thing startle me awake again. (Note: 'Slightest thing' was often my sister, who liked how I'd throw my hands over my head and scream when I was startled.) Apparently I fussed a lot and I breathed strangely. They tell stories about propping the crib mattress up so I'd wheeze less. I snored like my dad, didn't sleep through the night, frequently woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares.
Sleeping, the most restorative thing we can do for our brains and bodies, has been the bane of my existence.
Despite promises from my pediatrician that I'd grow out of all this, nothing has changed for me as an adult except that I'm old enough to know that I'm chronically exhausted. I wear a sexy Darth Vader mask every night that's supposed to keep me from suffocating in my sleep. But even with the mask, I'm pooped. The sleep doctor tells me that I need to actually sleep more at night, but my brain fights going to bed like I'm a toddler afraid of missing out on all the excitement going on around me. (Note: there's no excitement.) If I don't read until I'm so tired my eyes start to water, I'll lay there staring at the ceiling, contemplating every single bad decision I've made in my life. Every. Single. One.
Sometimes I do get eight or nine hours of sleep, but those are usually the nights when the nightmares hit the hardest. My sister dies. I get a memo from our central communications office, reprimanding me for improperly editing press releases using the wrong style guide. I'm late to a final exam for a class I didn't even know I was taking, and all the stairs I try lead to the beach, my parents' house or work — not the classroom. People I used to know materialize from the ether to tell me that I was ridiculous for thinking I could ever be good enough for anyone. My parents eat pancakes and won't share them with me.
And those are just ones I've had recently.
All this is to say that this post almost didn't happen because after I ate dinner, I promptly fell asleep in my possibly-Ambien-stuffed recliner. Because I don't sleep at night. And I've been tired for almost 40 years. Frankly, it's starting to catch up with me.
Pancakes, anyone?
Sleeping, the most restorative thing we can do for our brains and bodies, has been the bane of my existence.
Despite promises from my pediatrician that I'd grow out of all this, nothing has changed for me as an adult except that I'm old enough to know that I'm chronically exhausted. I wear a sexy Darth Vader mask every night that's supposed to keep me from suffocating in my sleep. But even with the mask, I'm pooped. The sleep doctor tells me that I need to actually sleep more at night, but my brain fights going to bed like I'm a toddler afraid of missing out on all the excitement going on around me. (Note: there's no excitement.) If I don't read until I'm so tired my eyes start to water, I'll lay there staring at the ceiling, contemplating every single bad decision I've made in my life. Every. Single. One.
Sometimes I do get eight or nine hours of sleep, but those are usually the nights when the nightmares hit the hardest. My sister dies. I get a memo from our central communications office, reprimanding me for improperly editing press releases using the wrong style guide. I'm late to a final exam for a class I didn't even know I was taking, and all the stairs I try lead to the beach, my parents' house or work — not the classroom. People I used to know materialize from the ether to tell me that I was ridiculous for thinking I could ever be good enough for anyone. My parents eat pancakes and won't share them with me.
And those are just ones I've had recently.
All this is to say that this post almost didn't happen because after I ate dinner, I promptly fell asleep in my possibly-Ambien-stuffed recliner. Because I don't sleep at night. And I've been tired for almost 40 years. Frankly, it's starting to catch up with me.
Pancakes, anyone?
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