I’m usually a good sleeper, but every once in awhile I will have a bout of horrible insomnia. Horrible, horrible insomnia. This past weekend I only had a total of six hours of sleep; I do not function well on less less than seven hours of sleep a night. The stress of moving from one apartment to another propelled me into this terrible episode of insomnia.
Last night, I lucked out and slept about 6.5 hours, however, it had taken me a little over two hours to fall asleep, which was anguish since I was so exhausted from the lack of sleep from the nights before. While I laid in bed on those nights, staring at the ceiling, I mused over how easily sleep usually comes to me, and how it now seemed impossible. Everything is so quiet at night, even the rumbling heater in our new apartment seemed to be a humming whisper at two in the morning. I also thought about my insomnia from years past — there was a point (about a month or so) in high school when I would have the worst time falling asleep — usually passing out at one in the morning, only to wake up at 5:45 to get ready for school.
Though it has been years, I was filled with the same numbed sensations and crushing loneliness then as I was this past weekend. Insomnia is a strange experience for me; my mind is too tired to think of anything in particular, but also impossible to stop of “buzzing.” It’s a depressive experience for me, especially since I don’t dream during these times.