insomniation

That song "Anticipation," by Carly Simon always seems to pop into my head when I think about my insomnia, because I pretty much just lie there wishing for the dust of sleep to fall on me and knock my ass out for 7 or 8 hours. Hardly ever happens like that though, so what I do is try and make pictures in the shadows where the paint on the ceiling has cracked and been painted over several dozen times. I think about re-arranging the lights, stripping the molding, painting the hallway.....or I think about work.

The nights where I think about work, suck ass. I review every little damned thing. What tasks must I accomplish in order to have a successful day? How much shit is gonna roll down onto my beleaguered group of co-sufferers from the perches of upper management? How many phone calls do I need to make in order to be considered 'productive' and when is the big daddy of a deal gonna strut in the door and prove me to be the star that I know I am? I wonder if I have any Clif bars in my drawer for when I'm hungry mid-afternoon, because I really don't have too much money to go buy more.....

It goes on like this for hours. At some point, I say to myself: "Self, go to sleep, dammit!" and then I hotly retort: "Don't you think I would if I could, bitch?"

"Antiiiisssiipayshun......antiissiipaayyyayyshuunn." Hopefully you can hear the lyrics the same way I can. It makes the pain so much more palpable.


The only possession in my life for which I will freely and unabashedly spend money is my bed. I've taken every possible precaution against my insomnia. I've created an environment so welcoming and so comfortable, that everyone who has ever slept in my bed has commented on its excellence. I purchase sheets that are cool and inviting and soft. They match the duvet cover and lend a warmth to the rest of my tiny, shitbox apartment. There are pillows upon pillows of which one can take full advantage. Soft, squishy pillows, firm pillows, small pillows and big pillows. It's a veritable cornucopia of pillow-laden comfort, my bed. And yet I lie awake in the limbo; too awake to be asleep and too tired to do anything productive.

And then comes the best part....that sweet, sweet feeling of drifting off, despite it all. Peace washes over me and I sink deep into my feather bed, which is on top of an egg crate, which is on top of a custom mattress. I tumble down the rabbit hole of slumber and become completely unaware of everything around me.

Until the reverie wakes me up about an hour and a half later and the day begins. I drag my sorry ass out of bed, pray to god that no homeless people try to crawl into the bags under my eyes for a nap, and head back out into the world, all the while hallucinating that I am actually still asleep and tucked safely away with the purple unicorns and men who can flex their pecs independent of one another.