Tuesday, April 22, 2003
 

I have given in to the insomnia.

Cutting back on caffeine didn't help. Refusing myself naps didn't help. Relaxation techniques didn't help. Tylenol PM doesn't cut it.

I am now swilling diet soft drinks to my (racing) heart's content, hopping in and out of bed more often than our slutty junior year apartmentmate, using my "Relax!" pamphlet as a bookmark, and letting the Tylenol PM bottle gather dust.

I don't know if this is leading to more or less sleep, or to no change. But it's less frustrating for me, one way or the other. Even when I lie down to nap, I often can't sleep. Every night that I do sleep normally (and those are rare as of late), it takes me 45 minutes-an hour to coax my body into a relaxed enough state to sleep. I gather that this is not normal. Now, though, I just settle for time spent horizontally. I don't really care if I actually sleep or not.

You probably all recall how, near the beginning of Fight Club, the Edward Norton character says something about how when you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake. That's how I feel right now, to the nth degree. I'm going to develop a Brad Pitt doppelganger any time now. Except that I don't think he's all that hot, so I think I'd prefer to hallucinate Viggo Mortensen. Or Dwight. Or Vincent D'Onofrio. Brown from CSI would also work.

This insomnia isn't anything terribly new. I used to stay awake late into the night when I was a kid. I kept a whole bunch of books in my bed (thank you, Scholastic Books) and read them all night. I remember a particular favorite being one called Almost Ten and a Half. I would read it until the last chapter or so, because I preferred the character's unhappiness and angst to the happy ending. Thus setting a pattern for my entire existence. Anyway. So I read the assorted books that I kept in my bed, mainly because I didn't like to get out of bed at night. Especially because that involved stepping on the rug beside my bed. I had a firm conviction that this would lead to mayhem and disaster. I vaguely recall seeing something of the sort on a TV cartoon, but I could have dreamed it.

I also think that the explanation for my shortness lies in these early years. I was terrified of sleeping with my legs extended, so I would always retract them to the most compact curled position possible. It hurt like the dickens after awhile. My arms would have to be folded to my chest, and my neck had to remain covered by the blankets, no matter what the temperature. I still get freaked out from time to time about extending my legs, and the neck must be covered, no exceptions. And there's no way I'd go to sleep with an appendage dangling off the bed. At any rate, think of all those hours I spent with my growing limbs compacted! It's no wonder my growth is stunted.

My atrophied brain can probably also be attributed to reading the same collection of paperback books over and over again.

I'm less sure about the origin of all this freakishness. I must have done something horrible in a previous life. Whatever it was, I hope that I enjoyed it at the time.

Elvisette philosophized at 7:46 PM