Insomnia is not a simple thing.

Posted: January 6, 2012 in transliteration

The first time I knew I had a problem was with a stuffed animal that winked at me.
I also remember a situation with the sky being the wrong shade of blue and the sun failing to go down.

A history of night walking and talking goes back as far as my parents are willing to share.
I once became the ass of Freshman jokes for carrying on coherent conversations with no recollection and screaming profanities at random on the few occasions when I let myself sleep soundly in college dorms.

Wake up in the middle of fucking…repeatedly.

My parents thought I slept a lot as a kid.
I had a relatively strict bedtime. Lights out.
From about nine years old, I read books via street light into the dead hours of the morning
and then “slept in” when morning came.
I’ve averaged about four hours of sleep a day for a very long time

broken into two shorter periods.

The main problem with this is REM rebound.

I probably don’t dream more than average, but I remember.
My dreams have their own history, and I remember some from when I was very young.
I was still in grade school when I started to manipulate lucid dreaming.
I rarely dream without lucidity…or recall upon waking.
Not sober anyway.
I have to be so exhausted that I forget to breathe when I fall asleep for memory to evade me
and that is an entirely different problem.
That level of exhaustion provokes night terrors as well as apnea.
Great combination, by the way.
I was still in grade school when I could recall flashes of my night terrors.

Yes, I do know the difference between a night terror and a nightmare.
It’s like the difference between boredom and a panic attack.

I have read what information there is available on the subject of sleep in most capacities.
Don’t correct me.

I know what I deal with when I sleep.

I’ve definitely earned the dark rings under my eyes.
You’ve got to be kidding if you want me to cover them with makeup
and deny that I like taking or doing
that makes sleep the least bit

I’ve had chronic insomnia for most of my life.
It’s one of those things that I don’t suffer from, because I don’t know differently
except vicariously.

As with a few of my other problems, though, I find it hard to respect other people’s superficial common usage of soft science definitions.

I also still resent being told that I’m sick, but sometimes; yes.

I want help.
I don’t have to lie or exaggerate to find myself on a cocktail of Ambien, Seroquel, and Prozac after one visit when I won’t be able to pay for a second one.

I want to know what it’s like to be my sister
and have allergies to cashews and internal organs that require removal for sabotage
instead of…this shit; this shit in my head.

What’s it like to be a woman that suggests Passion Flower in lieu of Librium?
In what state of existence are those two interchangeably useful?

She tells me that the gene we share that’s responsible for Parkinson’s is active
because we have trouble sleeping.
I refrain from telling her that I hate just about everything she has to say.
She tells me about a doctor that didn’t ask for her medical history
and prescribed something that made her hallucinate.

I don’t tell her that I hallucinate.
I don’t tell her anything.
She lives in a world where she can resent her MD and praise her herbalist.

I live in a world where those entities don’t even exist
where I’m two steps away from becoming a ward of the state
defaulting on life
and half the time hoping I lose the lucid moments and become certifiably insane
after killing a client
or a boss

or my sister.


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