Last night a glimmer of my past raised its ugly head and stared at me again.

I couldn't sleep.

I even took a sleeping tablet, but I just stayed up most of the night anyway.

I haven't had sleeping problems since I moved to England, since I spent those cold dark nights in Sweden in the purple glow of the television wondering when I could finally close my eyes and make it work. I would alternate every third night with the prescription sleeping tablets, waiting for the rocketing dizziness to set in and waking in the morning with the bitter taste of medicine and poorly-won sleep. I would manage about 5-6 hours of sleep until the white light of hidden sunlight on snow steeped into the windows. My X Partner Unit would kiss my unemployed head goodbye and head off to work.

But even before then, the lack of sleep was evident. Returning from a holiday we had in Turkey I was up for nearly 3 days before I caved to the siren call of sleeping tablets (the word "zombie" doesn't adequately describe me in a sleep-deprived state. More like "lunatic who should be kept away from the internet"). Weeks were metered by the TV that I stared through in the night. Days passed into night and back again and there I was, dark rings like a raccoon and the desperate drug-like yearning for sleep, only once I laid down all I did was toss and turn.

The worst episode I ever had was when I lived in North Carolina, shortly before moving to Sweden. The stress was so great that I went into manic modes in which I would stay up for nights on end cleaning. Things had to be cleaned. Things that were clean got re-cleaned. My place was so germ-free even Martha Stewart would have agreed it was clean, and would have sat naked in front of the refrigerator eating the leftover lasagne with her fingers. This went on for about 3 nights and then I would crash burn and sleep for 24 hours.

I got away with this from work as I was working 7 days a week anyway.

So last night I couldn't sleep. I was in bed reading for a while with Angus, and when he snapped off the light we assumed the normal crash positions-both of us on our left sides, his right arm curled up around me, under my elbow, over my breast, resting just beneath the angle of my chin with my arm wrapped around his. Maggie laid herself like a throw over his legs and laying like that, the two of them drifted off under a patina of matching snores.

But I didn't.

I went into spinning in bed mode, unable to get comfortable. I twisted and turned and plumped my pillow and hung a leg or two out. I tried to relax, I tried to go into Mittyism dream mode-I manage to save the world from nuclear destruction. I won the Nobel Prize for my perfect risotto recipe. I wrote a bestseller and appeared on Oprah in which I naturally cried (as everyone cries. She may even have Barbara Walters beat by now).

It didn't work. I got out of bed and downed a sleeping tablet and ambled to the computer, where I surfed and then played Sims for a while. I heard a shouting noise and walked into the darkness of the bedroom, to a sleeping Angus awash in mightmares. I reached across the duvet and put one hand on his leg and whispered: Shhh...it's ok. You're dreaming. With a sigh he went back to sleep and I went back to the PC.

At midnight I surfed eBay and managed to find an alarm clock I had as a kid and which I must have now. It's a big white chicken that sings: Wow! Yeah! Hey baby wake up, come and dance with me! Am slightly worried Angus will hate it. I am looking forward to experiencing my childhood again, albeit without the part where I flung said chicken alarm clock against the wall to silence it, which leads to the singing chickenless state I am in today.

At 1:00 a.m. I downloaded David Ford's new fantastically titled album I Sincerely Apologise for All the Trouble I've Caused. It is of the slow sad kill yourself variety of music, the kind to be avoided at all costs if experiencing a break up while clutching a bottle of tequila lest you become even more desolate, when you're still in the Patsy Cline's Crazy weepy stage. The songs are even more sad and slow than Gabriel's I Grieve or Sarah's Hold On, the slow version of which makes me cry like I am watching E.T. (and I always cry when I watch that movie).

At 1:30 a.m. I returned to the bed, hopeful. Foolish...but hopeful.

At 2:00 a.m. I forgot what a cat lover I am as I reached over Angus and removed Maggie from the bed, seeing as she was stretched out taking up his space and he was stretching out Bogarting mine. I figured-cats have short attention spans. She'll forgive me.

At 2:30 a.m. I solved world peace, wrote up a week's worth of blogs, and figured out what to do about the fault log at work.

At 3:00 a.m. I had forgotten all my achievements and was just cross that I couldn't sleep.

At 3:30 a.m. I fell asleep.

At 7:00 a.m. Angus was on the phone and it woke me up.

Time to start the day then.

I don't think I am entering that cycle of "never leave the house or bathe or eat thanks to the big depression that will run your life forever and ever" again. I think it's more like my body's way of saying "Seriously, if you do not dump some of this stress I am going to find new and interesting diseases that you will suffer from, all of which will be listed in an encyclopedia of interesting and amorphous tropical diseases and which 15 year olds will read in their school libraries with a mixture of horror and excitement."

I am strangely tired but I think if I tried to sleep it would fail, and anyway the day is pretty hectic ahead. Phone conferences for most of the day then a trip into London to see that nice therapist guy who is working my head out with me. Then back home tonight. Interesting TV. Maybe a bath and a shag before bed.

And sleep.

Please dear God let me sleep tonight. I'll give you a kidney if you'll just let me sleep. I can't go back to that cycle again. I worry what it means.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:57 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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