insomnia

I often daydream about what it’s like to be one of those normal people the world always signals us to. The ones whose bodies work well, for whom sleep comes quickly and easily. I have always marvelled at anyone who proclaims, ‘I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime!’ OK, good for you — thank you for sharing with the group. Or ‘Yeah, I always fall asleep in front of the TV.’ Excuse me, sir, don’t you precede your sleep with 40 rituals to create the perfect conditions? I wonder what it must be like to move through the world without sleepless nights.

Sleeplessness has followed me around, chin wagging, for as long as I can remember. As a child, I was terrified of the dark. My parents would have to leave the light on through the night. Truthfully, most nights, I slept in their bed, terrified of what would happen to me if I stayed in my own room. The dark scared me. I was terrified of most things. If I had to go to the bathroom alone in a restaurant as a kid, I would pee as quickly as possible and sprint back to the table; the bogeyman was not only under the bed in my dark bedroom but also in the public toilets of most establishments. I’m surprised I didn’t rupture my urethra with how swiftly I’d eject the urine from my bladder.

Now, I crave the dark and thank god for an empty public toilet. Sleep still evades me. I've tried everything. When I tell people I have trouble sleeping, they offer suggestions like:

have you heard of rain sounds

and sleep meditations

and have you read that Arianna Huffington book?

and passionflower

and stretching before bed

and pushing against a wall

and sound machines

and rocking yourself to sleep

and this YouTube video I once watched I’ll find it for you

and my friend told me that melatonin really works

and screens off by nine

no sugar after three

no caffeine after twelve

have you heard of CBD

complete darkness

and did you know that as women we …

the endless of you shoulds to get thats we love to prescribe to each other. Turns out many of the miniscule sample size I’ve surveyed have a considerably tough time sleeping.

When the inevitable well-meaning suggestions stream in, I want to scream bloody murder in their faces, enraged by my cantankerous insomnia-induced mood. I want to tell them that none of that will work for me. It's been 35 years of this. You don't fucking know what I deal with! How painful it is for me! I am singular in my pain! No one else has ever had insomnia except for poor old me!

But I don’t do that: screaming bloody murder in people’s faces doesn’t tend to ingratiate you with people. Instead, I nod and say, ‘Oh, interesting, I should check that out.’ 

As if I haven't tried absolutely everything: 

hot milk and honey

passionflower

chamomile

arnica

As if I haven’t tried 

Xanax and Klonopin

(horrific drugs for me)

As if I haven't tried Valerian root and melatonin and breathing deeply and counting sheep and cat cow stretches in my bed. 

As if I haven't tried turning the light on and reading poetry to myself aloud. As if I haven't tried masturbating, as if I haven't tried staying up all night, as if I haven't tried giving in to being tired, as if I haven't tried surrender. As if I haven’t imagined what a SNOO might look like for adults and if they’ve considered making one yet. As if I haven’t imagined having an isolation tank in my home, a la Eddy in Ab Fab.

Sleep still evades me, misunderstands me. What is it like to be a normal person? The more I know about normal people, the less I think they exist. The more I learn about these mythical normal people, the less I think I will ever be one. 

When sleep finally does come, I relish it (and it always comes, despite my considerable complaints that it never ever does). It’s not that I don’t enjoy the act of sleeping once I’m there, it’s just the torturous journey to get there that mystifies me. When people without sleep problems ask me why I don't sleep, perplexed, ‘What do you think it is?’ I blame it on medication.

I offer imprecise, meaningless ideas to make us both feel more comfortable. ‘If I just exercise enough, it's fine.’ (It’s not). ‘If I shower before bed, it’s better.’ (Ok, liar). ‘You know, I should get Joe Dispenza’s book, you’re right’ (I won’t).

But sometimes, the truth is my liver aches so much in my body that sleep is impossible. And sometimes I'm obsessing so relentlessly about this, that or the other thing that my head might explode on my pillow and then I'll never sleep again (exploding head etc). My brain is the problem, no my body, no the world, no — well, I’m not sure.

Sleep is reserved for:

those who live in the countryside

who never had any trauma (not mutually exclusive)

athletes

cats

dogs

narcoleptics

those with an easy childhood

people who own iso tanks

When I was in my 20s, I hated going to sleep; I'd force my friends to stay up with me until seven in the morning chatting shit, endlessly talking and talking and talking and talking as if sleep itself was the enemy. If I could just stay up, I'd never have to face the prospect of not sleeping.

Sleep will come for me one day. As I grow older, I'll become someone who easily falls asleep in front of the television, never worries that the brain might not switch off, and doesn't fear sleeping aids for how deeply groggy and miserable they make her. I’ll become one of those mythical normal people with nothing to complain about. 

With love,

Nora x