Insomnia

Sleep should not be difficult. Sleep should be easy. Infants sleep instinctively for eighteen hours a day, no training required. Bears and chipmunks do it for months at a time. It is a basic, nightly, perfunctory activity. What do you do at the end of the day? You go to sleep.


Not me. These days, I go to bed, but not to sleep. I no longer possess this capacity. Sleep's mystery eludes me like a dream. (But I don't have those any more, either.) In fact, it's been over a month since I've had a night of continuous, restorative, blessed sleep.


I feel tired--extremely tired--as I turn out the light and my head hits the pillow. Then the all-night wrestling match with my brain begins. I cuddle with Elizabeth. I practice deep breathing. I pray. I utilize mental relaxation techniques. I even try counting sheep. But my brain continues to whirr and hum. I glance at the clock. It's 11:15, 12:46, 2:20, 4:00, 5:49, one sleepless minute rolling into the next, and then all too soon there's my alarm clock, crackling with the local country station into my sleep deprived ears. Time to wake up and exercise! But is it waking up if you never fell asleep in the first place?


I've had this insomnia problem ever since high school. I came to refer to myself as an "Insomna-maniac." It comes in spurts. I'll go months with regular, restful sleep, and then suddenly I'm swept into a vortex of insomnia that engulfs me for weeks at a time. I've blamed late basketball practices, snoring roommates, school stress, midnight snacking, weather patterns, residency hours, jet lag, anxiety. I've tried benadryl, nyquil, melatonin, herbal teas, relaxation techniques, ocean waves, diet restrictions, prayer. It's all pretty much useless.


The common denominator in these spells seems to be a pattern of relentless, purposeless brain activity. Ever see a freshly caught fish thrashing around helplessly in the bottom of a boat? That's my brain. Once, I lay awake all night with an old John Denver song playing an endless loop in my head. Why? Sure, I liked the song "Matthew," but after 30 repeats, hadn't I had enough? A few weeks ago, I annoyed my lovely wife when, at 3:00 am, I rolled out of bed to scratch down the lyrics to what seemed to be a brilliant, humorous song that I'd spent the last several hours composing. Strangely, it wasn't nearly as brilliant a few hours later. Often, it's anxieties that keep me awake, which is weird, because I rarely feel anxiety during the daytime. Maybe that's what's really going on: I've learned to suppress anxiety in my waking mind, and so it punishes me all night long. If I spend more time pulling my hair out in the day, could I get at least a few hours of sleep at night?


I used to fight these episodes, throw pillows at the wall and clocks in the trashcan, often panicking in the middle of the night when it became apparent that the sleep bus was passing me without stopping. But I've since learned to accept my fate: I let my brain have its fun, focus on my physical rest, and passively let the night slip away into morning.


The only sustained period of time in my whole life that I've not had insomnia problems was as a missionary. The highly regimented schedule, the exhausting work,

and undoubtedly some divine intervention let me sleep like a baby for two years. But otherwise, I hit these spells at least a few months out of every year.


My daughter, Joy, is the ultimate sleeper. She's out like a light within seconds of hitting the pillow, and she sleeps like a rock for 11 hours straight. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll wander into her room and watch her peaceful face in blissful sleep, and I feel vicarious contentment and a simultaneous envy. I think wistfully, "If only it were so easy."


To sleep, perchance to dream . . .