Cursed Tongue: Insomniac’s Somniloquy

Posted by CursedTongue on April 14, 2006

Aside from a handful of Nyquil-induced comas, I haven’t had a full eight hours of sleep for nearly a decade. No, I haven’t been drinking hummingbird food or popping out babies like a Catholic Easy-Bake Oven. I’ve always been prone to insomnia. My mind is a diabolical Chatty Kathy doll, constantly spinning and reeling. Apparently, even when I am asleep I’m not taking full advantage of that restful state, because I talk in my sleep.

It starts innocently enough, as an ever-increasing beauty and health bedtime regime: the sacred rituals of flossing and moisturizing. I tuck into bed and close my eyes, and thoughts bubble to the surface of my mind. I toss and fluff my pillows. I breathe deeply and count backwards from 100. I get to one, and still I am awake.

The problem intensified once I was married. Before I was married, I used to pity kings and queens of old for their loveless sleeping arrangements in separate bedrooms. Now I know it had nothing to do with love. Sleeping alone is practical.

It’s bad enough quieting incessant nagging worries, the hobgoblins of the pre-sleep mind. And there’s that “So, you think you’re going to sleep,” itch on one’s nose. And then one realizes that they forgot to turn out the porch light, or lock the door, or take out the garbage. One shouldn’t have to sort all of that out and have to deal with someone kicking the bed while he reads.

To make matters worse, my husband is chronologically impaired. Getting him on a schedule seems an insurmountable proposition. I often awake at three in the morning to find him bright-eyed and typing fervently, bitten by the programming bug. Most nights he is up later than I am, reading with the lights on, despite possessing an Itty Bitty Book Light. But, it’s not unusual for him to get to bed on time and then sleep until two in the afternoon.

And I’ll never forget the week where he woke up before me every morning and we actually went running. It was as if the man whose feet hurt by the time we get to aisle three in the craft store had been replaced by extraterrestrial body snatchers. They must have been dissatisfied with their specimen, because after a week they brought him back. As for my feeble attempts to get him on some sort of schedule, I’ve seriously considered drugging him.

I can’t blame my sleeplessness entirely on my sweet husband. I have taken responsibility for it. I’ve tried exercising during the day, meditation, sleep masks, lavender linen spray, bedtime yoga, Sleepytime Tea, Breath Right nasal strips, fervent prayer to Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, and Benadryl, all with disappointing results. I still manage to wake inexplicably at o’dark thirty in the morning. I even gave up my beloved miracle wonder drug, caffeine, for a while to see if that would help.

Now, of course, I’m up bright and early so I can turn the espresso maker on and fumble through the kitchen wondering if I’ll ever get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep without abusing rhino tranquilizers. I pile ground beans into the metal coffee filter, put the filter into the brew basket and line the thing up and twist it to lock it into place. I blink and the brew basket and filter clank on the floor and the espresso grind, more insidious than glitter, scatters over the tiles. Then I wonder if there’s a job opening at the zoo.

- Sarah Letnes

Filed Under: Cursed Tongue, Guest Blog - Comments: Be the First to Comment



top