Waking nightmares.
I hate people who can sleep. You know, those smug bastards who decide they’re going to sleep, get into bed, turn the lights out, and then simply… sleep. Maybe it takes them a couple of minutes to empty their minds, or maybe they just spend a couple of minutes surveying the tranquillity of their lives with self-superior glee. They tuck themselves in and congratulate themselves on how soft their mattress is and how calming the book they’re reading is and how regular their sleep cycle is. Before you know it, they’re snoring. No amount of din will wake them up, although you can be sure that as soon as they’ve woken up themselves, they’ll make such a fuss of their cup of tea that everyone in the house will be awake. I have never been blessed by such powers of slumber-related docility.
For me, sleep is a battle and it’s not one I’m winning. I have always been this way, ever since I was a teenager. It comes and goes in waves — I can spend a couple of months getting a reasonable kip, and then all of a sudden it’s like a switch goes off in my head and I spend the next few weeks tossing and turning, ranting and raving, getting up and lying back down again. It’s not even that I am up till the small hours watching Youtube and eating sandwiches. I don’t spend my waking nightmares brushing up on my Ovid or pushing my way through season four of The Crown. Rather, I lie awake thinking about things. Anything. Sometimes, not much at all. The tiniest comment. The smallest moment. Stuff that hasn’t even happened yet. I could be doing something far more useful, but I’m not.
I’m not that much of a night owl, as one might expect a sporadic insomniac like myself to be. It’s not even a matter of not being tired yet. It’s a matter of being at the mercy of my mind. It plays tricks on me, and sometimes when I get to the point where I can feel myself drifting off, it pulls me back into consciousness like a predator toying with its prey. Or like the Michael Corleone in The Godfather (“just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!”). I do not delight in my three a.m podcast fests, where I pray that listening to James Acaster’s voice will be the tonic that I need. I do not enjoy sitting awake, reading Bridget Jones for the fiftieth time. I do not love sitting out on the balcony after two a.m, trying to let the fresh air lull me into rest. In fact, I worship sleep. It’s very important to me. When I get a good night’s rest, I wake up absolutely giddy with restfulness. It’s the holy grail. Maybe that’s why it often seems just out of reach…
Take last night, for instance. I had worked myself up into such a frenzy, worrying about this and that — about money and Christmas, about how to make gnocchi properly and how not to burn broccoli in water— that by the time I had gotten into bed, I just couldn't switch off. I couldn't let go. I wasn’t even particularly anxious by this point; after the whole gnocchi disaster, I spent a lovely evening playing Sims 4 with my flatmate. However, I was still basking in the glow of my anxiety. I still couldn't quite rid myself of all the thoughts swirling around in my head. That’s always how it goes. I always feel that anxiety has a half-life. Even once you think you’re out of the woods, the physical effects haven’t quite worn off yet. You’re still at the mercy of the nuclear-glow of your own obsessions.
At my worst I have been up all night, just fretting. I have seen the dawn, and it has filled me with dread. Sometimes I just haven’t slept a wink, other times I manage to get off at around seven a.m — but then, I’m up again at nine. I hate the effects of sleep deprivation — my mind feels muddled, my body is reeling, and all I want to do is eat. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep — I’m too busy worrying about how I’m going to feel tomorrow. Sleep has gotten better for me recently though. Where once I used to self-medicate with drugs, I now try to plug that gap with meditation and magnesium supplements. And quite a lot of the time, it works. But not last night. I think the past week has been intensely anxiety-inducing for me because I just don’t know what to expect, what any of my plans are, or even what I should be doing. I want somebody to tell me what to do, but I know that if they told me, I probably wouldn't listen. I can’t sleep without certainty.