From ages 8 to 23, I was an insomniac. I would lay in bed for countless hours wishing for sleep. My body would be exhausted, my eyes heavy and burning, but my mind would be alert and racing. I usually passed out around daybreak, only to wake a few hours later.
I tried to treat body and mind. I drank chamomile tea. I took melatonin. I had a white-noise generator. I went to a therapist. I played games like “stop thinking for a minute.” I created elaborate fantasy worlds with serial plot-lines to pass the hours in bed and still my anxiety. When I was 16, I started smoking weed. Later, Jim Beam became Mr. Sandman.
When I sobered up at 23, my biggest fear was not how I was going to have fun or what people would think of me. I feared not sleeping.
Fortunately, that fear was unfounded. By no longer annihilating myself and addressing my underlying emotional problems, I ended up with pretty normal sleeping patterns. I fall asleep easily and stay that way the whole night through most nights.
While my difficulties with sleeping are gone, my story about sleeping continues to be an issue. This became apparent to me the other night.
I was helping some friends out and what we were doing was running longer than I had anticipated. It was about 10PM and I decided I wanted to go home. The thought “I’m so tired” entered my mind. I started to yawn repeatedly. My eyes started to close and burn.
I told the people around me that I was tired as well. I wanted everyone to comprehend my situation. Continue reading “Tired is a Story, Stories are Tired”