Sleep deprivation is terrible. It is no wonder it is used as torture.
Returning to my home from balmy Florida, I face my priorities — unpack necessities, eat a morsel, read the mail. Accomplishing the basics and eager to be off my feet, I hurl myself into bed.
A nighttime interruption via a visit to the bathroom ensures my night is a nightmare. The conundrum of insomnia bisects my nights when these episodes arise. Between the two segments, time passes interminably until eventual sleep. My alarm setting is much too early, in need of a re-set. Three snoozes after the new setting, I surrender to more sleep, awaking at the shameful hour of 10 a.m.
After arising, the mirror reflects a ghastly face and an atrocious bedhead. Under my half-mast eyes, double bags sag almost to my jaws. Damage control is an oxymoron. The day will be a struggle, my goals shifting from what I plan to do to what I can do. Completing unpacking is overwhelming, as are phone calls, checking my bank account is boring on a good day, as are emails. Before noon, I am already thinking of bedtime. Only my fingers are useful, tapping keys on my computer as time marches into the afternoon and daylight wanes, while I sit, the chair like an appendage from my body.
Once upright, I set up the elements for a perfect slumber tonight. A light dinner, a careful fluid intake, a cool room, a marinade of creams and lotions and a relaxing reading period position me nicely for sleep, glorious sleep. Until …
At 5 a.m., sleepus interruptus with a bathroom call. I am a senior citizen, but still …. Experts advise engaging in something outside of the bedroom, but I don’t want to leave the warmth and comfort of bed. Unlike those who begin their days at five, I yawn and pull the bedding to my ears. My alarm will sound in 90 minutes. I turn it off.
Wakefulness gives way to somnolence. My dreams are fascinating and after my brain reaches a semi-conscious state, I remain supine trying to process them. I am in a delicious state of laziness, wondering if I really could spend the day in bed. I wish I had a servant.
I am apoplectic to see it is almost noon. Sinful. I skip face and teeth cleansing before a repast. Can I be more slovenly? I am wearing a fleece exercise outfit relegated to sleepwear so it is dual purpose, whether I am seen or unseen. Days can fritter away without changing attire.
Can I accomplish one scintilla of something productive? The mere act of getting out of bed may be my big achievement. Millions are out in the world doing good while I am in the dregs. Languishing does my body no favor as grogginess makes me feel at loose ends. I am in blunderland. Coffee creamer ends up in orange juice, toast burns, eggs overcook. Clearly, not all cylinders are firing.
I apply self-psychology:
What should I do today? Something.
What do you want to do? Nothing.
How does this make you feel? Despicable
I change from fuzzy slippers into shoes as though this makes me less of a sloth. In my pajama/exercise attire, I perform token tasks such as cleaning the junk drawer, separating chronic junk from practical junk and organizing the kitchen gadget drawer. Shall I clean the snack bag clips, harboring the awful chemical coatings of crackers and chips? If not now, when?
My mind is on bedtime, a deliverance from this crummy day. A smorgasbord of leftovers is dinner and watching a video is my last hurrah. I call it a (horrid) day. With sleep hygiene measures in place, I install myself to read, then sleep.
To all, a good night!
Joanne Patrick is a Danbury resident.