Insomnia.
I don’t mean the type I used to suffer from when I was young
and had fire in my belly and needed about three hours sleep a night, and
actually couldn’t go to sleep if I’d had more than five hours the night before.
I mean proper, grown up insomnia. The kind where you go to bed and demand
complete darkness and silence, and practice all sorts of mind relaxation
techniques on yourself and have various oils and unguents and potions that are
supposed to assist a good night’s rest stinking up your room.
The kind where you don’t drink any caffeine after five in
the evening and don’t do anything stressful and go for a nice walk and then
have a warm bath and get into bed and get warm and cosy and think happy
thoughts, and four hours later you’re still lying in the bed wishing the stupid
night would end.
The worst night was last Wednesday. I was wide awake, His Nis was making his incredible
snoring noises beside me.
Obviously I gave him a good few pucks for himself. And said “Stop Snoring” about four million
times, in ever more hysterical tones. The
last time I woke him he became a bit hysterical himself and told me to stop
whinging. When I objected to this, he
told me that he saw no reason for both of us to be up all night. I couldn’t really argue with him.
He’d been patient, I suppose. This was at half past two on a Wednesday
night. I’d started moaning at about
eleven, moved on to banging my heels on the mattress to signify my
unhappiness at being awake. My hope was that because I was sighing but
not swearing, he might wake up and be nice to me and make me a cup of tea or
something. Nothing doing. When I banged my heels so hard
that the dog almost fell off the bed, and His Nibs still pretended not to
notice, I gave it up.
Eventually I stormed into the spare room. I could still hear his snoring, of
course. I’d say the couple three doors
down could hear it, but that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sleep, to be fair. I’ve been able to nod off despite his pig
noises for twenty years.
Still, it’s nice to be able to blame him for my suffering.
It was just insomnia.
I honestly don’t believe I got more than an hours sleep on Wednesday
night.
On Thursday night I went to bed at eight fifteen. This might seem over the top, but I allowed
that I had to get to sleep before he went to bed, before the dogs started
jumping on and off the bed, and he started turning on the light every few
seconds to find important things like his car insurance documents or the spare
house key. Just because he likes to know
where they are.
I threatened His Nibs.
I told him that fire was literally the only excuse I would accept for
waking me. And I wouldn’t be accepting
any excuses about how it was an accident, or it was my own fault or anything
else. I said that if I was woken up, for
any reason, the party responsible would be spending the night in the kennel in
the garden. I made it crystal clear that
I included my husband in this threat.
He didn’t wake me. In
fact, he and both the dogs went directly to the spare room at bedtime. (A practice which is strictly forbidden, as
it happens. It’s the only room in the
house the dogs are not allowed in.
Obviously once I’m asleep anything goes).
I sat bolt upright in the bed at eleven o’clock. My first thought was that I might go
downstairs for a cup of tea, and maybe I’d forage around to find out if there
were any biscuits His Nibs hadn’t found.
But I decided against it. I knew
that if I went downstairs I’d end up turning on the television, and lighting a
cigarette, and I’d have to brush my teeth again, and that I was better off just
going back to sleep. It took quite some
time.
I did nod off again in time to wake at two in the
morning. At that stage I was so wide
awake that I jumped straight out of bed and went to the airing cupboard, to
tidy it up and sort it out at last.
One look into our airing cupboard though,
would drive anyone to go to bed and pull the covers over their head, and that’s
what I did.
I was awake for another while from four till sometime after
five. Needless to say, when it was time
to get up for work an hour later I was absolutely worn out, there was
considerable risk of tears before I even got into the car.
I’m wrecked. I’m
absolutely exhausted. Most days I find
myself walking around like a zombie, even my gait has changed. I wasn’t graceful in the first place, these
days I’m thumping around like a cross elephant.
And I’m like a nettle. I have had to ask people in work not to speak
to me, because I’m so contrary I’m
afraid they’ll all hate me by the time I finally get some sleep again.
And strange to say, when I see my friends and loved ones
they’re immediately able to sympathise about the fact I’m still not
sleeping. Even before they ask me how it’s
going.
This is despite the fact that once again I have fallen for
the beauty counter patter and spent eighty euro on a bottle of shite with the
actual blurb that “We can’t give you a good night’s sleep, but we can make you
look as if you’ve had one.”
Eighty pigging euro.
It’s no wonder I can’t sleep at night.
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