Anatomy of an Insomnia Attack

After the spring/summer insomnia trifecta of horror (trouble falling asleep, frequent waking up in the middle of the night, and waking up early), my sleep patterns had sort of returned to normal. Although normal for me would probably be considered severe sleep deprivation for most people (I just read about a study suggesting that chronic sleep deprivation can lead to emotional problems. That’s not exactly rocket science.).

Last night, I was totally exhausted, so I was in bed before 10 (yes, very punk rock, I know). I fell asleep pretty quickly, but I woke up around 1:15. My main insomnia issue is that my brain doesn’t seem to have an off switch. When I wake up, if I can just keeping my brain from thinking too much, I can go back to sleep. But last night, my brain started working overtime.

1. First, I started to think about work, which is always a big mistake. I started to worry that there were things I had forgotten to do yesterday. Then I worried about all the stuff I have to do tomorrow. And I agonized over whether I’m doing well at the job. Then I thought about how tomorrow was going to be really awful if I couldn’t get some sleep.

2. From there, I moved on to existential-crisis-type thoughts. Am I doing enough with my life? Am I really achieving anything? Will I have enough money for retirement? Should I have a baby? Can I even still have a baby, what with my aging ovaries and all? What kind of mother would I be, considering that babies kind of give me the creeps?

3. I tried to distract myself from the crazy thoughts with a little harmless fantasizing about what shoes I would buy if money were no object. Unfortunately, I got into an argument with my brain about the relative merits of certain pairs of Miu Miu pumps (Brain: The navy/gray/green ones are more practical. Me: But the pink/red/tan ones are so cute.), and that defeated the whole purpose of a supposedly relaxing fantasy.

4. I had now been lying in bed awake for almost an hour and a half, so it was time to consider getting up. I pondered the idea of watching a DVD, but I didn’t want to start a movie, since that would seem like admitting that there wasn’t going to be any sleep tonight. A TV show seemed like a better idea, but I was having a lot of trouble deciding what the watch (apparently, we own a lot of TV shows on DVD). I considered Veronica Mars, but so far (admittedly, I’m only two episodes in), season 3 is really annoying me. That led to 15 minutes of pondering the downhill trajectory of VM. And wondering why why why the cancer-stricken sorority house mother would have to grow a pot FOREST in the basement when she lives on a college campus, presumably a place with abundant access to pot? And wouldn’t the penalty for being caught buying pot be a lot less harsh than that for being caught growing massive amounts of it? And what college would actually allow a bunch of 18-year-olds to participate in a super-controversial psychological experiment? This extremely productive chain of thought gave me a headache.

5. I decided to get up and read for a while. I’m not actually reading anything at the moment, so I thought maybe about re-reading an old favorite. I was in the mood for some Frances Hodgson Burnett, but I couldn’t locate my copies of The Little Princess and The Secret Garden, and I was just too tired to do a major search. I considered going with Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, but I’ve read it so many times during bouts of insomnia that I’m afraid I’m going to start associating it with sleep deprivation.

6. So, I gave up on reading and decided to write this instead. If it doesn’t make sense, don’t blame me. Blame my stupid brain.

Not That I'm Anxious or Anything, but...

All work and no sleep makes Lady Tiara a dull girl (and kind of a raving bitch). My insomnia has shifted into high gear lately. I have the insomnia trifecta: trouble falling asleep when you first get into bed, frequent waking up in the middle of the night, and waking up really early. Most people have one type. I get them all, over the course of the night. I’m extremely grumpy, and I’m beginning to wonder how long a person can go with only 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night. (If you are one of those type-A personalities who can get by on only 4 hours a night indefinitely, I really don’t want to hear about it.) So, a combination of lots of stress and not enough sleep has made life exceptionally dull lately, hence the lack of posts.

But for the last few days, I was in Austin for work, so that finally gives me something to write about (posts and not very exciting photos to come). The whole process of traveling adds to my insomnia: 1) I get stressed out before traveling, so I lie awake at night making lists in my head of everything I need to do or pack, or I have nasty anxiety dreams about missing planes, and 2) I have trouble sleeping in strange beds.

I have been trying to figure out why traveling makes me so anxious. I like traveling in general. I love going new places. And I’m not particularly afraid of flying. While waiting in the Austin airport, I started making a list in my head and I’ve taken somewhere around 160 flights. My first flight was when I was 4. My first international flight was when I was 5. I am a fairly seasoned traveler. But two things give me pause.

1) Flying makes me feel all eurgh. I have severe motion sickness. I threw up on every domestic flight I took from ages 4 to 13. (For some reason, this never happened on the international flights since I would generally fall asleep five minutes after take-off. I suspect the use of drugs, for which I can’t really blame the adults.) I still often feel like puking when I fly, although I am usually able to hold it together. (Still, the first thing I do when I take my seat is check the seat pocket for the barf bag. I like to be prepared.) I also get severe pain and pressure in my ears, which feels like someone jabbing a letter opener into my eardrums. It’s awesome.

2) I absolutely refuse to ever miss a plane or be rushed in any way, so I like to get to the airport really early. For example, my flight to Austin was Saturday at 12:30. I woke up at 7 a.m. and threw a few last-minute things into my already packed bag. I was in the car at 9:15. I arrived at the airport at 10, and I was checked in and through security by 10:30. For a 12:30 flight. Yes, I know this is totally insane, but it’s all my mother’s fault. When I was a kid, she was late for every flight she ever took. She’s the woman running through the airport rushing to make her plane. Every time. And I was the kid she was dragging behind her. I hated this. I never understood why we just couldn’t leave earlier for the airport. Or why we had to wait until the last possible minute to call a cab. Once, when I was 7, I stopped running and said to her, “Someday I’ll be a grown-up, and I won’t have to fly with you anymore, and I’m never going to miss a plane or have to run through the airport. I’ll be on time!” She just rolled her eyes, but I stuck to that resolution. I’ve never missed a plane, and I’ve never had to run through an airport (except for last year’s unfortunate incident at Charles de Gaulle, but that was entirely the fault of Air France, a.k.a., the bastards who wouldn’t let a couple on their honeymoon sit together). So, I blame most of this on my mother (to be fair, my father also likes to get to the airport with a few hours to spare, so it may be something in my genetic makeup).