Last night, 3am, in the barely-dark darkness of the big city, I composed in my head a rant about the latest outburst from the factions of the 'Sleeping pills are bad' fashionistas. Those squalling, hawking, superstitious scuzzballs, those sentries of self-righteousness.

Suicide has given sleeping pills a bad name.

The fact that I was awake at 3am & the fact I was composing anti-anti-sleeping-pill rants in my head are not unrelated. It was an excellent rant, too, though probably nothing I haven't said before. Full of vim and verve. Or venom. Or whatever the words are I mean.

After ending the rant against the ranters who rant about sleeping pills, I went on to compose a lengthy explanation about insomnia, for the sleeping beings I disturbed during the night, who may not understand why at 3.30am I got up and turned on the mosquito lamp, or why at 4am (having sunken into fury about still being awake while a whole goddamn week lay ahead of me) I started in again on Michael Robotham's latest book, 'Shatter' (which is very good, but which wasn't responsible for keeping me awake). Or why at 5am I switched the light off again, 5.30am I moved the cat to a spot on the bed further away from my frown, 6am I swore at the red halo of the alarm clock (fuck that alarm clock). Or why when I got up at 7am, my face rigid with fatigue, why then I was so incensed to have been robbed of one night's sleep and my peace of mind. Left to stumble over my words for the rest of my waking hours and divide the day not into morning and afternoon, but nausea and headache.

Let them ask. I have devised an excellent explanation (that my wakeful-weary brain has momentarily misplaced).

They say they want to set up a national directory of sleeping pill users (since those of us who want to sleep are apparently closer to danger and death than those who hide their chemical imbalances with drink or drugs or bad television). I say: bring it on. Let the bitches who suck at the teat of trendy faux-concern, who enjoy the drama of overwrought anxiety, let them have their directory of dirty drug users like me. Let them, I say, suck on that.

If I've learned one thing this long weekend, it's this: ten hours of Six Feet Under in just over one day can screw with your brain.

David: What am I supposed to do?
Dad: What do you think? You can do anything, you lucky bastard, you're alive! What's a little pain compared to that?
David, reflecting: It can't be so simple.
Dad: What if it is?
-- Six Feet Under, Season 4, episode 12 (final)

Can also give you insomnia. (Insomnia is like a step, or a line, maybe. Once you cross it, the rest is easy. But mostly you fight NOT to make that crossing, because there's tomorrow's day job waiting on the other side. Weekends, you cross it as easily as flying. 'This,' you tell yourself, 'this is like breathing.' Insomnia is all-too, that's what it is. All-too-familiar. Too easy. And when the sleeping pill -- the one you'd staved off taking because drugs are like, bad, man, I know it's true, I heard it on TV -- when the sleeping pill kicks in your first sign, hours later, is when you hear yourself think, "Oh, wow, I can feel it in my eyelids." And then there's the moment of euphoria. Not from the drugs. Just from the knowledge you will finally sleep. Sleeeeeeeeep, sleep.)

(Which reminds me, I've got to re-read the Twin Peaks book where Special Agent Cooper performs sleep deprivation experiments on himself ... and he ends up emptying a watermelon and carefully arranging the seeds on his bed.)

Yeah, yeah, I've got to read that.

Man, I love long weekends.

If I were to be completely honest, I’d have to say I was an insomniac long before I was serious about writing. I’d read deep into the night, just to keep my own doubts at bay. I was an angry, fearful child, consumed by aimless emotion. Sometimes painfully withdrawn, sometimes easily bated into fights, my own skin always seemed to stretch uncomfortably on the bone, and when the night came, it only got worse.
-- ocvictor

Except for me, it gets better. At night, in the quiet, away from the pulse of humanity, I can finally hear my own heart beat. My skin feels *right*, it feels like it might just lift and reveal underneath only breath, only air, and I can float through my window into darkness and nothing need ever be disturbed by my absence. My writing started then, way back when, in the middle of the night. My writing still picks up speed & energy the later it is in the day. The world knits together better at night. They say the best healing happens when you're asleep, but I like to be awake for it.

I have largely given up trying to cure insomnia. ( I went through the whole thing of ... )