The older a person gets, the more she loses touch with her natural body clock. Studies have been done on this.  There is science behind it.

Now, if I were you, I wouldn’t check this site regularly for unbiased reporting on medical phenomenon. I am both a seasoned hypochondriac and as prone to embellishment as a cake decorator.  But, I have some real life anecdotal evidence on this topic.  And, last I checked, on the internet that is as good as any PhD.

I just woke up.  At 2 a.m.  I think I might be up for the day.  This is early even for my insomnia.  Usually, it’s 4 a.m. right on the nose. But two?  How do I even pretend this is normal and get on with my day?

Coffee at this hour feels like defeat. Moreover, coffee is a dirty lie.

Coffee says, “Anything can happen.  It’s a brand new day!”

It is not a brand new day.  It is still yesterday.

You can get technical with me on this, dear reader, but the cave woman in me will ask you, “Where the fuck is the sun then, Neil DeGrasse Tyson?”  No sun? Yesterday.

Michael will wake up maybe two more times to pee before he finally gets up for good at 8 a.m.  On at least one of his bathroom trips, he will see me lying here awake and grunt, “Go to sleep.”  If only he were a hypnotist…

I must explain this over and over to him. He will say, “Why can’t you just lie there and go back to sleep, sweetheart?”

Because “Why can’t you not wake up five times to piss?”  would be a mean-spirited response to a sincere question, I tell him that I get up to pee sometimes, too, and on those occasions,  I can fall right back to sleep.

But, other times I wake up, and I am just fucking wide awake.  No other way to say it. When that happens to you, you either get up and do other shit, or you stay in bed, but sleep is no longer part of the equation.

It’s like startling the day rather than starting it.  I jump awake with moonlight and stars outside my window as if I’m late for an important meeting with Dracula.

It’s disconcerting.

It’s also lonely to be up at this hour.  If you call anyone at two in the morning, it better damn well be an emergency.  You can’t call to say, “Hey, you watching that new series on PBS?  It’s called ‘Mercy Street’, and I already love it.  So catty. Meow…..Um, it’s Debbie.  Sure, everything is fine.  Just wanted to chat about television and maybe get your opinion on redecorating my bathroom.”  You lose friends that way. People “forget” to give you their new cell number.

Maybe I should meet with Dracula after all.  I’m up anyhow, and he’s got mad skills as a hypnotist.

What is the weather like in Transylvania right now? Or, he could fly here. In bat form.

Maybe he will be kind enough to tell me, “Go to sleep.”


Comments 2

  • If this piece is the product of that sleeplessness, I’m selfishly delighted. Also, now have to check out Mercy Street. A a reasonable hour, of course.

  • This is a regular part of my life as well. Including a husband who is asleep before his head hits the pillow. I sometimes get up and write an insomnia letter to a friend of mine who also has insomnia. We’ve been doing that for years.

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