Though I've never seen it, the title for the inaugural post from my new blog (yes, the name of the blog itself--oh, I don't know--obvious, maybe? Think of it as an ultimate goal of mine, and also the only title for the blog that I was clever enough to concoct at 11:30 pm on a Tuesday) is taken directly from a famous movie by Claire Denis. Presumably, it's about someone who isn't tired, as, directly translated, it means "I Can't Sleep."
Which I can't. Not anymore. I used to be able to. Hours and hours of the stuff. Then, things happened. Shifted, I guess. A breakup of a six year relationship. Then, a brain tumor grew in my mother's head, which turned to a cancer that enveloped her spine and she died a year after the young man in question and I painfully (does it happen any other way?) severed our ties. It's a lot for anyone to go through--a nasty break up and then the loss of a parent within 12 months. It's not, you know, surviving a U.S. bombing campaign in Dresden or Baghdad. But, it sucked. A lot.
The insomnia started in the late summer of 2006, a month after my mother passed. Actually, that's not quite true. It started earlier--when I moved into my own apartment in the summer of '05, alone for the first time in six years. I'd been doing a lot of meditating, and was learning a truckload of information about yoga, and my body, what with all the changes (did I mention that on top of moving and ending a relationship, I started a new career, too?) became completely electrified. Somewhat restless. It was manageable with herbs, but there were nights were I was lucky if I clocked 6 hours of sleep. At that point, catching up was still possible, though. Sleep would visit me if I was tired enough.
At that point, there was such a thing as tired. It wasn't that long ago, and I can still remember what it felt like to let my body drift away from me, my mind blurring into a fog of stillness and subconscious ramblings. I remember thinking that people who couldn't sleep were crazy, that they just weren't exercising enough, or that they just needed to cut back on caffeine.
Then, there was the trip to New York that I took in August of 2006, some 30 days after Mom died. I was visiting my best friend, Raelle, who was there working on a fancy play with fancy actors. It was exciting, being back into my life, seeing my friends, reminding myself how I was supposed to feel, seeing what my life is supposed to look like on the other side of the filmy grief that was coating my life then. The second night there, my body shook with alertness. With every gentle wave of sleep that approached it, my body shrugged it off with a jerk, my heart racing in my chest, eyes shooting open, finding the dim light in the room, my mind suddenly baffled that it was no longer dreaming.
This went on for months. That fall, I contemplated getting a cat (I'm horribly allergic) just so there'd be something else awake with me all night beside the pernicious cockroaches that were threatening to take over my kitchen. I remember sitting up one night, watching Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. The movie opens with a scene where, after being given a tranquilizer, her princess escapes from her handlers and makes her way into the wilds of Rome at night. By the time that the handsome (the oh so handsome) Gregory Peck catches up with her, she is fading fast, dead to the world, collapsing on benches, his body, anything that will hold her weight. That is how asleep she is. When I watched this, at some ungodly three or four in the morning, the black pre-dawn sky swallowing the street outside, I envied her, this young woman given the gift of simple, constant, unyielding sleep.
I should inject here that diet and lifestyle aren't to be blamed; I've quit everything that can be held accountable for insomnia (coffee, alcohol, drugs, bad men and bad jobs) and consistently engage in the activities that are supposed to prevent it (healthy diet, consistent exercise, yoga). When I had friends that said things like "You know, I had that problem for a while, and you know what? I cut out coffee. Gone." (Uh-huh. Thanks. Hadn't had a cup in over three years at that point. ) "You know what, YOGA is great for sleep." (REALLY? I'm a FUCKING yoga TEACHER, for chrissakes.)
Shame crept in. Somehow, the grief of losing a mother and a lover wasn't enough. Shame had to join the party, too. Shame that despite my lifestyle, my health mongering and all that I'd done to turn myself around (see future entries regarding Rachel's previously lifestyle of pure debauchery and utter fucking chaos), I could not as a disciplined yogi of many, many years find the right ingredients to bring sleep back into my life.
I've got this thing that is called, according to the information available on the Internet, hypnic jerks. My body spasms when I'm trying to fall asleep. It sometimes gets better, sometimes worse. If my body doesn't jerk as I'm falling asleep, instead, I will have a mild anxiety attack just as I'm on the brink of unconsciousness.
It.
Sucks.
I've worked with a naturopathic doctor who had me on melatonin for a while, which worked, until I suddenly developed a massive intolerance for the stuff. Sleep meds mostly work, but I can't seem to find the right formula consistently over time. Last night, for example, the usual dosage didn't take and I found myself staring at the ceiling, two mg of Lunesta coursing through my veins, wide eyed. Awake.
I woke up this morning at 6:30 as I do every day (with the sun; Christ yes I have blinds in my house, but it's more a matter of my body rhythm; I've always been one of those people who wake with the sun) feeling like someone had stuffed seventeen pounds of jell-o in between my ears. I've actually been doing okay for the past few weeks, and then there is the sudden setback of not being able to shut down again.
Then, a calendar seemed to open itself in front of me and I realized (DUH!) that Monday was the two year anniversary of my mother's death. Grief is such heavy, strange stuff. I understand now that I was a stranger to it until she died. Real grief--the kind that comes with heavy duty loss--is a nasty little parasite that worms its way into you and tricks you into thinking that it's not really there. It's strange and heavy, deceptive and cruel. It's impossible to outrun. Your life cannot outpace it, no matter what. There is no speeding past it, no such thing as hurtling yoursel through your day fast enough that it won't find you.
There is no teflon strong enough to deflect it, no greasy slick oil that you can coat yourself with to let it slide off. There is no two people who will feel the same way about the loss of a parent, and no one can tell you how shitty and awful it is to go through until you experience it yourself. It is a curtain made of duvetine and lead that is somehow also invisible.
I talked to my Raelle tonight, oblivious to how upset I really was until she got on the phone.
"I know that you like to think that you're stronger than this, that somehow you should be over it by now, but you have to accept that sometimes you just need to call your friends."
Raelle has had her share of insomnia issues, has had moments in her life where she was brokenhearted and batshit crazy over this thing or the other. It affected her for four years--for four years, she would get fed up with the view of her ceiling and walk around Lake Merit in Oakland in the middle of the night. Alone. That how fast she tried to run. She is still visited by insomnia. Not as often, but it happens.
"What do you do?" I ask. "I get so bored, but I'm usually too tired to read, and I just get sick of watching tele, you know?"
"I daydream," she said. "I just lie in bed on my back, stare at the ceiling and think of things that make me happy."
Evidently, when I can't sleep, and I'm nervous about my utter lack of fatigue when it's already midnight, I start a new blog entry. There are worse things. Crack. Last call. Becoming a Republican.
There will be a time where it isn't so problematic anymore, where July 14 or April 24 (her birthday) will be days that pass in front of me without my psyche even missing a beat. I've gotten over the worst periods of my life with equal parts acceptance and gratitude. I have been known to be very patient with myself as well, learning to love the very things that I want to change most about myself. It's hard, however, to love an anxiety disorder. It's something that I've never had to do. Frankly, I suck at it. I've got my hands full trying to tolerate it. Nothing seems to be working.
I've learned, though, that even when nothing seems to be working, when you live honestly and openly, something IS working. That you will wake up one day and be better. I still do my yoga, every day, and I say outloud to my friends and family that I'm still struggling, that I still need their help. I keep hoping, and trying to find the stability to be both forgiving and patient. I feel like only through that will I be able to simply lie down, close my eyes, and let my body go.
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