For a number of reasons, I’m struggling to get enough sleep at the moment. It’s killing me. I am someone who needs a good eight-hours; any less and the next day I am grumpy, weepy, hungry and angry (Snow White anyone?). The fact is, I just don’t function well without it.
As soon as I get into bed, I work out the number of hours that I will get if I fall asleep that second, in 30 minutes or in an hour and a half. Then, I have to avoid looking at the clock because, the later it gets, the more I start to panic.
I can’t remember the last time I got my full quota and I can’t see a means for improvement. You see, for the most part, it’s out of my control.
Teenagers don’t need to sleep apparently
Firstly, I have a teenager. She’s 13 and every night, her dad and I are in bed before her. That wouldn’t be such of a problem, if we were able to leave her to her own devices.
The problem is, despite our repeated instruction, “she forgets” that she has to turn the light out at a set time. If we didn’t police her, she would be up half the night. And as much as she thinks that she doesn’t need to sleep, she reacts to a lack of it about as well as I do. This means that we (usually I, because my husband has the infuriating ability to drop off the moment his head hits the pillow) have to remain alert in order to tell her for the hundredth time: “Please, for the love of God, can you turn your light out.”
No matter that we have the same conversation every night: “homework by 9pm, lights out by 10pm; please keep the noise down,” we must endure the same sequence of events. Every light in the house goes on because she needs to go downstairs for a drink. Her door opens and closes because she’s forgotten to brush her teeth or wash her face. After that, she HAS TO to put something in her bag. Lights out passes and it’s: “I forgot,” or, “can I just finish this” or, the most infuriating of all: “Just one sec”. Every … single … night! It’s no wonder I can’t sleep. I may be lying in my bed but my body thinks that it’s going into battle.
So, cat’s are nocturnal then
If it’s not my kid, it’s my pets. The night before last I was woken, alternately, by my dog throwing up, and my cat clawing the carpet. I pretended not to hear the vomiting. The rule in our house is, if you find it, you clean it, and my husband gets up before me, so … As for the clawing, I give up with the cat. Like my kid, she has no respect for my authority. And the carpet is a lost cause, especially now that it’s covered in dog vomit.
Last night was unusual though. What is usual is my cat – who sleeps all day by the way – waking me up at all hours to be fussed. At any other time when I try to pet her, she sinks her body toward the ground and runs away, like my skin burns her to the touch. In the wee hours though, she stands on my chest and stares at me until, barely awake, I remove my hands from the warmth of the quilt to stroke her face. But, that’s not even the worst part.
I don’t want to share my bed with mice
No, the problem is that she’s partial to bringing in mice. Live mice. Mice that she then chases around my kitchen. It’s actually quite comical, watching my husband and daughter give chase on their hands and knees. Me? I give direction from the safety of the sofa. The cat clearly thinks that they’re bonkers. Especially when my daughter tucks the captured mouse into a box, complete with bedding and food, and relocates it to the nearby field. What’s not comical, and what keeps me awake at night, is the dread of her dropping one of those mice onto my bed.
The other night, seeing a suspect shadow at her mouth, I swiped her off one side of the bed, as I jumped out of the other, naked. I had my husband on the ground (not in a sexy way) with a torch, looking under the furniture. No mouse, all he found was dust and hair. But now, every time she comes in, I jump, looking for a tail hanging from the corner of her mouth.
Work, work, work, work, work
The other thing to affect my sleep is my to-do list. That never ending ticker in my mind that most women can relate to. Sunday nights, in particular, are a nightmare. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my responsibilities run through my mind on repeat allowing no space for sleep.
Other nights, just as I’m about to drop off, I’ll think of something clever to write. I could have been stuck on something all day, but, as soon as my mind quiets, the answer rushes in, insistent, not wanting to be ignored. I keep a pad and pencil next to my bed, and some nights, the light is on and off that often, that my neighbours probably think we’re having a rave. The alternative though, is not writing it down, certain that I’ll remember it the next day. I never do … ever.
I’m getting on a bit
Also out of my control is the fact that I am getting older. I am up and down to the loo like an 80-year-old man with a dodgy prostate. My doctor told me it’s normal during perimenopause, as is the nighttime anxiety that has only worsened in recent years.
Is it just me or does everything seem scarier in the quiet of the night? Granted, I am scared of everything most of the time, but in the middle of the night, I feel particularly sad, usually worrying about my daughter or older loved ones. The awareness that any of us could be taken at any time, has definitely heightened since my hormones went wonky.
None of this in conducive to a decent night’s sleep.
Some of it is my fault
There are times, for sure, when I don’t help myself. Too much screen time, especially before bed. Drinking coffee after midday. Reading about the horrors in the world.
I know what I should be doing. Yoga, even just 10-minutes, meditation, a few pages of a nice book. Turn the light out at a reasonable time. Let my kid stay up all night. Shut the door against the cat.
Last night I put my husband on kid duty and, so tired from the night before, I slept through the usual debacle.
The cat did wake me up at 4am, but … ah who am I kidding; I love that part.
