Insomnia is not my friend.

It’s 2AM. That isn’t so late–many people are still up at this hour. Of course, most people aren’t blitzed from battling a cold (just a cold! not H1N1! Hurrah!) and tried to go to bed at 10:30 because they have to get up by 7 to not just get a child ready for school but go with her to a field trip. Which means shower, hair, real clothes, and the full monty.

What I hate most about insomnia is how utterly useless it is. It’d be fantastic if I could realize I’m not sleeping and get up and write. If I hadn’t taken half an Ativan, I could, maybe–but if I started writing, my brain would turn on even MORE. 

I get insomnia a lot when I’m writing. Once lit, my brain wants to keep going, and it’s most dangerous when my body is too tired to aim it anymore. I spend a lot of time during writing binges falling into the shallowest of sleeps while my mind spins endless, nonsensical offshoots to whatever I’m working on at the time. It almost seems to like it better that no other part of the cranium is conscious enough to point out that it is high, that nothing makes sense. I’m quite sure this part of my brain will still be going strong once I’m a vegetable in a nursing home, and I will assuredly be one of those weird saggy women who grab your arm in the cafeteria and start urgently speaking to you in slurred Sanskrit.

But the bigger problem with my insomnia is this part, when I acknowledge that I am in fact awake and that lying there pretending otherwise will only serve to make me insane. At this point my frontal lobe is firmly if groggily engaged, and it foolishly thinks it can corral this mad beast that is keeping us awake, and makes chase. FOOL. It’s like running after a greased toddler. You think you can catch up, but those little legs work twice as fast, and the grease really is an asset.  Plus, you want to get back to bed. The toddler doesn’t.

In the other room Dan is snoring, and so are a few cats. Anna, as usual, has wandered into bed to ward off nightmares. The sinus pressure in my head has abated, thanks to Sudafed, but it will still be aggravating to my snot head to lie down–though if I prop my head, I will fuck over my neck, which will mean extreme pain and possibly Vicodin, and we all know where that ends up. When I go to lie down, the greased toddler will once again get ready to run, because I’ll be primed, despite my efforts to drug this collective consciousness to sleep, for another round of mad mental journeys instead of slumber.

It rarely works to reason with a toddler, but in the spirit of "it can’t hurt": Bear it mind that if you keep us awake all night, I’ll be too tired to work, especially after the field trip, and all your weirdly lovely ideas will be for nothing at all. Also, there will be no cookies. NONE. 

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