It's a family trait.
I have it. My brothers have it. My mother has it. I think only my dad can sleep whenever, where ever, and I envy him.
I can't remember my last decent night's sleep at this point. I know last night I slept from 10 until 2. Four hours. I should be so lucky tonight. I spent the rest of the night not sleeping, then dozed after Charles and Zoe left for work/school, but never really got any solid sleep.
Tonight. I went to bed at 9, utterly exhausted. It's now 11 and I show no signs of actually sleeping. Instead, I have a racing heart, a spinny head, and a knot in my stomach the size of Mount Everest.
I just had to use spell check to spell Everest. That's how frustratingly tired I am.
I don't often miss work from insomnia, but I don't see how I'm going to go in tomorrow if I can't get to sleep sometime soon. But by now, of course, I'm so worked up about the fact that I'm NOT sleeping that there's no way it's going to happen.
The snowball effect, times fifty.
I'm so edgy.
I could finish reading a book I'm hoping to review in a week or two.
I could take a shot of gin or drink a glass of wine, hoping for some sort of soothing relief from the alcohol.
But I don't use alcohol medicinally.
I'm the freaking opposite of the March family in Little Women.
Please forgive the Louisa May Alcott reference above. I'm that tired.
Heh. I should live blog my insomnia tonight. That'll be entertaining.
Insomnia Live Blog Update: American Pickers on the TV. Sadly, it's an episode I've seen. I turned the air WAY down because I'm hot. Sometimes being cold makes me sleepier. I'm still contemplating that shot of gin.
I should try it.
I mean, it can't hurt, right?
Yes it can, says my liver.
Yes. My liver just spoke. Out loud.
I am that incoherent.
It's all anxiety right? I know that. I read an article in New York Mag a few weeks back that talks about how a diagnosis of "anxiety" is what all the cool kids are getting these days. Well, if that's the case then I'm James Freaking Dean.
I'm that cool because I'm that anxious.
What do I have to be anxious about? I wonder.
I mean really, there's not much. Or...anything. I have a cute little house, a cute little kid, cute dogs, cute husband, cute (although utterly annoying) cats. My life - it's cute.
But sometimes that's part of the problem, right?
Because when I start to feel anxious, I remind myself (and am often reminded by others) of how good I have it. Of how great my life is.
And how much worse off SO MANY PEOPLE ARE, and the kicker is? Then I feel guilty. Like I'm being self-indulgent with this anxiety I can't seem to control. Like I have a choice in feeling this way.
That New York Mag article? It said some people take special classes to learn to control their anxiety. They're taught to recognize their symptoms (for me: racing heart, racing brain, song lyrics on repeat in my head, hot feet), and to then say (silently? out loud??) "This is my anxiety. I'm closing it off in a mental box so it will not control me."
Me? I've tried. But that mental box? It's a sieve.
Sometimes the act of writing can help. That's why I'm sitting here. I should probably be typing this massive brain purge in a Word doc, never to see the light of the outside world.
But somehow, I know that won't help.
Instead, I'm blogging.
Insomnia Live Blog Update: Gah, this episode of American Pickers is particularly painful. The balding guy with the beard is dog-sitting in this utterly forced/staged, painfully awkward sequence of events. But the chick with all the tattoos is out picking with the skinny guy, and I enjoy watching old men try to process this girl with all her body art.
Sigh. It's 11:21. I get up at 5. Maybe it's time to take that shot. And go write a story about something else.
Wish me luck.
And good night and sweet dreams to all of you.