Tales of a Chronic Insomniac

5am and the images cycle randomly through my mind as if some malevolent being holds the TV remote to my brain. The scenes change every two and half seconds. Precisely. I know this because I’ve been counting them all night. They are not the expressions of a chattering mind which is plagued with worries from the day or what needs to be done, but a mundane slideshow lacking all context or meaning - monkeys eating grapes, a tennis racket, microbes dividing…and I can’t shut them off. Metronomic and insipid, they must number in the thousands by now for I have suffered this all night as I lie uselessly in my bed. My body and mind are locked in a war of attrition where we will both ultimately lose.

At twenty-four hours without sleep, you begin to lack coordination and cognitive function. At forty-eight hours, your body itself begins to react adversely – hypertension, hormone shifts and unstable mood swings. You stumble about, can’t hold a thought together and even simple tasks seem arduous. But at seventy-two hours comes severe mental impairment, disassociation and your health begins to decline. Hallucinations, mysterious body sensations and your emotions are shattering in all directions. Beyond that is madness.

I have not slept in thirteen days.

Not real sleep anyways. Lying down, rest commences, like dipping slowly into water but soon my eyes snap open. Night after night it has been the same. No matter how exhausted I am, no matter how inevitable sleep seems to be approaching, it evades me like a feral cat. I shift sides once again, drawing my knees up into a fetal position as the monotonous slide show begins once more. It’s cruel, relentless and I want to cry. I do cry. I understand now why sleep deprivation is used for torture – except I am my own captor.

It began slow, maybe a month ago. I have always been a light sleeper but now even the slightest sound or the first touch of daylight will wake me. A restless night followed by another. Six hours of sleep, then four till finally none came at all. I drag a cot into my studio where there are no windows hoping that will help. I make a cave for myself, nestled beneath my easel and among my paintings in the cool silent dark – a gnome in his cavern deep below the earth, a dragon with his gold buried in a mountain. Scenes of safety and calm. They help for a while, scraping a few extra hours of rest from the night, but in short order this attempt will fail till sleep abandoned me altogether. I am now an orphan of the night and the long descent began.

My heart begins to drum in my chest and a tide of anxiety rises assuring sleep impossible for another night. Anxiety is not an emotion native to me, but it’s here now, pernicious and demanding. It’s been six hours of this. I can’t lie down anymore and I’ll try anything now to staunch this impending angst. It’s not even dawn and I pour myself a heavy Screwdriver and go out to my porch to quell the fear sluicing through me. I don’t care. Outside, the shadows of cars from the I-5 freeway race across the stone building adjacent to my studio, cast there by a far streetlight as the deep azure bleeds into the waning night sky.

Every night I try to assess, to uncover a root cause to this but there are no other stresses in my life – just this. I’m healthy, I successfully make and sell art and blessed with many friends. In the days ahead, I attempted every suggestion, earnestly took every supplement, consumed every drug offered to me from people trying to help but they’ve all ended in failure and frustration. Lavender oil being the most insipid of suggestions. I don’t need to smell like my aunt’s couch, I need a horse tranquilizer. Meditation was an equal failure because apparently there is a malicious clown that dwells in my brain which subverts any attempt to do so. If I imagine I am lying in a warm peaceful ocean being rocked gently by the waves - the sharks swarm up from below with yawning caves of teeth. So, I reset. Now I am in a citadel far out in the forest with thick protective walls which nothing can penetrate. A place of perfect safety and calm. I imagine a warm light starting at my feet working its way up my legs, everything relaxing - then a trapdoor below me gives way, plummeting me into a void. This repeats all night, every night.

The sun is beginning to rise and I’m now at a dire level of exhaustion. My mind goes to dark places. There must be something medically wrong with me. This isn’t normal. Not for insomnia this enduring. Something primal in my mind has broken and simply forgot how to sleep. Maybe it’s a tumor or something wrong with my thyroid. Dreams have evacuated my life as I’m quickly shorn from the reality around me. Shadows dance in my periphery and there are gaps in my memory. Around my bed, objects are rearranged with no recollection of moving them. I look ten years older, my eyes stricken red, my face puffy like dough. My body feels like it’s made of wood tethered together by wire. I’m now terrified of my bed. Like some injurious mistress who I know will betray me yet again. I can no longer safely drive. I can no longer function and I can no longer cope. Another day among days slogging in a liminal wasteland of exhaustion and now increasing dread.

But when I feel what seems like pain in my chest, I know I have reached a crisis point. I’m heading to the hospital. I think I’m dying.

I hail an Uber and at the hospital I’m triaged to ensure I’m not just making this up and given a small bay in the ER. They check my vitals. I’m hypertensive and my pulse rate is 155. I take a drug test and they run a blood panel. Soon I’m on the EKG, receive a chest x-ray, given a mystery pill and left in the subdued blue light waiting for it to work. I worry how much this is going to cost me. In the bay adjacent to me an old man is on oxygen sleeping with his mouth gaping open in a silent howl. He reminds me of my father and I count the decades until I may be him. My hands are shaking. But soon I can feel my pulse recede and the anxiety diminish so whatever they gave me is working.

I don’t remember how much time passed. Thirty minutes, an hour…but eventually the doctor comes in with her clipboard, calm and unassuming. She adjusts her glasses, flips a page then flips it back.

Well, your drug test came back clean so thank you for being honest about that.

You’re welcome.

A lot aren’t.

What about the rest?

Let’s see…the panel came back clean too. Your thyroid’s just fine, that was our biggest concern. Your heart shows nothing abnormal except for the tachycardia, but I can see that’s back to normal now. That just seems to be anxiety which given your situation is understandable. I mean it’s 98 now and we like things under 100, so good on that.

Anything else?

Nope. Well, you should probably drink a little less, but other than that there’s nothing wrong with you that we can find.

But I still can’t sleep.

Well look, we’re an emergency room and we don’t treat insomnia. We treat dying people and you’re not dying, so just talk to your doctor and try to relax. Do you have any questions?

I guess not.

Your clothes are right over there.

It’s a relief I guess, but it doesn’t solve the problem. But I managed to check dying off the list and for that I’m grateful. I deep breathe the whole way home riding out the last of the calming effect of whatever drug they gave me. I should have asked what it was.

Barbara’s Restaurant is nestled deep inside our art warehouse compound and not a hundred yards from my front door. It’s dangerously convenient. I order a beer rationalizing that it isn’t a Manhattan and toast to not having Hyperthyroidism. Maybe I should drink less. I stare at the full glass brimming with the familiar bite of hops and delicious delicious false comfort. Maybe it’s this? Could this be causing it? I’m only having two. Doesn’t really parse. Most of my friends are professional drinkers and put away enough cocktails to emotionally cripple a small pod of whales, yet none of them are experiencing what I am. Not even close. Sure, booze gives you terrible sleep but it doesn’t keep you awake for half a month. Half a month…that doesn’t even seem real. I light a cigarette. I’m sure that’s not helping either.

My neighbor Tanya comes by with a Maker’s on the rocks. A long-time friend from Burning Man and together we have provoked more misadventure than legally reasonable. Neither of us will ever be able to run for public office. Ever.

I thought you were in the hospital?

I…How’d you know that?

Because when you got in the Uber you said you were going to the hospital and that you were dying. The rest of it didn’t make any sense.

Oh. I did? I…don’t remember.

It looked like you were short-circuiting.

I was…am. I don’t know. Things are a little cross-threaded at the moment.

So, you’re not dying.

No. Not today anyways. I mean the day is still young.

And you haven’t slept?

No.

Then what are you doing here?

Apparently drinking with you and not sleeping.

Fair. Cheers…So, what are you going to do now? By the way your shirt’s on inside out.

Oh... Must have been at the hospital. Don’t know. See my doctor? I mean…I mean I already did about a week ago.

Then what’d they say?

To…I don’t know, relax, get some exercise and if I have any chest pains go to the hospital. Seemed like kinda á la carte advice.

Did you?

Did I what?

Have chest pains…exercise.

Tanya, look… I can barely walk. If I tried to jog I’d be in there with a compound fracture. And yeah, I thought I had pain, but I don’t know, right now my body feels like it’s filled with wood chips and nails. Maybe something dead. Like a puppy.

I…don’t know what that feels like.

You don’t want to.

So…You need an off button. Like a knock you on your ass horse pill.

Yes, but…

Shush. And maybe a new pillow.

I…huh? Um, I guess but look I’ve tried every…

Shut up. You want another round?

Um…I…sure.

Standby…

Wouldn’t it be funny if all I needed was a new pillow? I know it’s not the solution but my pillow does kind of suck. She drops off the drinks and heads to her studio mere yards away. I feel the malaise of exhaustion coming on again. That great teasing sensation I know too well and which won’t deliver for it will ditch me the moment I lie down like a bad prom date. I simply can’t take another night of this. I’m teetering into the realm of madness and if I don’t sleep, a mental breakdown is assured.

Tanya returns and takes a slug of her drink and places two white chalky pills into my palm and folds my fingers over them.

So, these are kind of illegal.

What?

Well, not illegal illegal, just illegal for you so don’t say anything. Not that anyone would care around here, but still.

I…fine. Sure. Thank you.

Take one. I mean it. Onset is about fifteen minutes so be lying down when you take it.

Promise.

Just one.

Yes, just one. What if it doesn’t work?

Then shoot yourself.

What?

No, it’ll work. But listen, brother, I watch you…you are brutal on yourself. All you do is work. You stay up all night. You barely eat. You treat yourself like a machine…and you’re not a machine. You’re not twenty-five anymore. Hell, you’re not forty-five anymore. You take care of everyone else. When are you going to take care of you?

She’s right. I’m an unrepentant workaholic who measures his worth in what I can produce. One more painting, one more telephone call at 3am when I should be resting. I used to drink two pots of coffee and work till dawn. And I could. I was a machine. But the absurdist levels I drove myself to just aren’t working anymore and somewhere something in my being has now said enough.

I waited till nightfall and let my roommates know my plans. I didn’t have another drink and held off having that last cigarette. I had made myself some tea and shut off the lights as the studio remained respectfully silent. I took the pill drawing it down with the hot tea. Tanya actually gave me a new pillow on top of it. It was like a soft earthen bosom as my head sank into it. Now to wait. And I didn’t have to wait long.

I felt it’s approach. Like a slow train made of cotton sheets ready to gently take me away into lands of dreams I had so longed to see again. The window came and I felt myself begin to sink…silken and warm.

Then I swallowed and felt something in my throat.

What was that? It felt like a nodule, something small and protruding and it wasn’t going away. I swallow again. Oh my God, there’s something there. Maybe it’s throat cancer. I smoke so it’s not impossible. This is my fault and I should have quit years ago. My parents will be heartbroken. We already lost my brother and now me. How am I going to tell them? Who’s going to get all my art? I’ve never made a will and I have so much stuff. My heart begins to thunder.

Then the sleep train passes as I feel it recede mercilessly away down the tracks. The window is gone and now I may have cancer. My mind isn’t functioning and reducing me into an anxiety stricken hypochondriac. It’s only midnight and I know my roommates will be up. I text them to see if I could take the second pill. No! they reply, but suggest I go out on a walk with them.

The night is gently cool as we walk about the complex. We make our way up to the metal laced catwalk three stories up which connects two of the main buildings and look at the stars and talk about things not insomnia or throat cancer related. We talk about my art and future plans I desire. That I will be okay. The sensation in my throat eventually vanishes and I realize I simply irritated it by gulping hot tea. With chronic insomnia the world becomes a callous funhouse mirror of irrational thoughts and eventual derangement distorting the reality about you. What’s not real becomes real and reality itself cannot be trusted because your mind can’t process it. Once you realize that’s what’s happening, then you begin to calm. But the problem isn’t solved yet.

It’s been two hours now and they agree that I can take the second pill. I don’t have a choice really. We say our goodnights and I settle down for the second attempt. This time I have confidence. The pill goes down past the non-throat cancer and I lie back again. This really is a great pillow.

In the dream I see my brother. He floats in a pool of water suspended off the living room floor of the house we grew up in. He’s laughing at me and it’s as if he never really died, like he had always just been there waiting. Cleo, the cat we had as children lies draped across my feet and the room is filled with small silver fish that weave in the air in helixes of gentle beauty. I laugh with him, my brother, and outside is an ocean where relics of ancient buildings rise from the depths and are topped with purple banners. This goes on all night in a delicate litany of scenes I don’t recall but leave in their wake a tapestry of comfort and peace. I remember starlings.

And I wake twelve hours later. I sit up in my bed.

And it’s over.

Gone is the anxiety and overnight I have my full energy back. That’s all it took – One solid night of sleep. That’s how powerful and critical it is and you don’t realize its importance until you are robbed of it. I make breakfast…and then I make art all day in a grand renewal of myself.

In the days ahead, I saw my doctor and we settled on a drug called Trazodone and I needed the maximum legal amount. I don’t like being on medication, but if it protects my sleep then so be it. I can never allow what I went through to happen again.

What went wrong in me is still a mystery and one I likely will never fully understand. In looking back, I used to be dismissive even disrespectful of sleep. A third of your life in bed sounded like such a grand waste of time when I could be getting things done and so I resisted it and resisted it until it seemed to give up on me and something broke. But like with any shattered relationship, we needed to become friends again and commence a new courtship.

I’ve now become the guardian of my sleeping and my waking – a steward of rituals. They are simple and prosaic and acts that are based in comfort – a caretaking of myself that I denied myself previously. And in the night when the silence whispers in, I've taken to shutting off all lights in a gentle countdown of switches and navigate the spaces of my home in the final hour with a small flashlight - a quiet thief among quiet objects to wash my face in a delicate rise of steam as I brush my teeth slowly and methodically in a personal liturgy of calming and to seek out my bed heaped with blankets which will drift me away like a raft until dawn.

Self-care was a foreign concept for most of my adult life – It is no longer. I see my bed now not as a source of anxiety, but a magic place where dreams will come. Dreams I will write down in the morning in my journal over coffee as the day fades into being. All these acts sacrosanct. Though I am still a night owl, I treat that too with respect. I listen to my being and when it says the night is done, the work is done, then it’s done. No pushing past limits to achieve one more thing on a list. Sleeping is listening to one’s self. And I’ve slept soundly ever since. It’s been six years now. And a new pillow hasn’t hurt.