I wish I could sleep. Not for just an hour or two, but seven continuous hours of real sleep. Not restless, weird-dreamy, nap-like snoozes, but deep and uninterrupted, restorative slumber. Ironically, that type of sleep may only be available in my dreams.
I’ve talked to my doctor, I’ve gotten advice from my husband, I’ve Googled it, and I’ve checked every box on every list of things to do to get a good night’s sleep. My challenges transcend Ambien. Now what?
Perhaps acceptance is the answer. Instead of staring at the dark ceiling and worrying about the diminishing amount of time until the alarm goes off, I should embrace my insomnia. Maybe four hours of sleep is sufficient for hitting the freeway at 6:30 a.m., working ten hours, and then being productive at home in the evening. Maybe I should celebrate. Woo hoo. Yay for insomnia. (I have a theory that sleeplessness is the chief cause of sarcasm.)
It’s strange. Sometimes my nocturnal catnaps involve dreaming about being awake. When the alarm goes off at 5:30 I feel like I’ve actually never gone to sleep. Now if I could only dream about being asleep . . .
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky—
I’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless . . .
~William Wordsworth, “To Sleep”