Sleeping pills are tricksy little buggers. They tell you not to take them too often, but in the twilight haze of stress-induced insomnia, "too often" is a very subjective judgment. When you are a person who needs eight solid hours of sleep and you've only been getting about six even with the damn pills, it's hard to keep track of when you started taking them and how many days that's been. Plus there's the annoyance of lying in bed arguing with yourself about whether it's worse to take them too many nights in a row or to go another night without sleep.
Apparently I have a drug problem. I always knew it would come to this; I always failed the 'addictive personality' tests in high school. Which is why I was always too afraid to really even try drugs until late in college, and I still maintain my one-time-only approach to anything other than alcohol or pot, and get a little frantic when I seem to want to indulge too often. I crave escape, and I'll do just about anything to get it. And these days, sleep and escape are just about the same and are equally unobtainable.
Yes, I know I'm not making any sense, but you should see my brain from my perspective - this is the most lucid I've felt in weeks! I sincerely hope that my midterm made sense, and the homework before that. I know my poor friends and family, and husband most of all, are suffering, and I'm very grateful for all of their/his support. Even the dog has been wonderful, soft and furry when I need him.
I slept for ten hours last night and I'm done with my midterm and I feel better than I have since I can't remember and still all I want is my nice bottle of pills and comfy flannel bed and a day or two of uninterrupted sleep. Please please please oh god please. Part of my brain worries when I get like this, but another part can't really figure out how that could be bad - I'm tired, I need sleep, the pills help. Right?
Wrong. Yesterday at work I took two Extra Strength Tylenol ™ to get rid of my ever-present headache and got so dizzy and woozy that I couldn't even drive myself home. It's like I reach this state where I'm so tired and out of it that if I start to relax at all, I just fall apart completely. I'm not sure where the line is between my eyes watering because I'm tired and crying because I'm so tired.
Sleep, sleep, Morpheus beckons… My days are long periods of achy body and throbbing brain in between nice cozy too-short moments of warmth in bed. Was I always like this? It seems like I can't remember any other state of being. I can never have children. I think I would strangle anything that kept me from sleeping, these days.
Next week, perhaps, I will have a real column. Until then, all I want is sleep.