When I was little I hated going to bed. Since, of course, all the good stuff happened after bedtime. I remember when, as a teenager, sleepless nights seemed romantic
I hosted and went to all night sleepovers where everyone finally crashed as the light broke and you awoke hours later in a rush to eat chocolate chip pancakes. You’d hurry and get dressed, partly because the parents were sick of girls’ giggles and partly because you were exhausted and wanted to sleep in your own bed.
Can you remember the first night you stayed up all night talking? Or the first time you told your parents you stayed up all night “talking”.
I remember being up all night while responsible for someone else’s children. A thunderstorm proved mightier than stuffed animals and lullabies. I remember eating frozen waffles with a 2 year old boy and his 4 year old sister. That memory still sticks out in my head years later. At the time it was a memory I expected to reproduce with my own children.
Then there was the first summer I performed on stage. I was young and staying up all night was a blast. There were a few of us underage actors. We were so tired but stayed awake rehashing rehearsals and gossiping about older actors. There was something so cool about listening to music and sharing clothes and talking about anything.
There was the group of kids I met at a college orientation. We stayed up all night the first night and the second. The first was fueled by fun and curiosity, the next with lots of coffee. When I got home I fell asleep talking to my father. Apparently I was in the middle of a sentence.
There was my wedding night, we didn’t crawl into bed until after 4AM the next morning.
I have many fond memories of being up at all hours. I’ve met some great friends between the hours of 12-6 AM. That said, it isn’t so fun anymore. Nights like those have ceased to exist.
There were the nights I plugged away at my business plan, desperately trying to get everything ready for my meeting with the bank. There was the night of my first miscarriage. I was alone and confused and not sure of what was happening until it happened. There was Christmas last year, a string of nights punctuated by fits on the bathroom floor.
And now these nights, where physically I could drop, but when trying to sleep nothing happens. That’s not entirely true, things happen, but not sleep. I’ve tried the trazadone the GP gave me at Christmas in lieu of a better Rx or an actual conversation. I tried husband’s cyclobenzaprine, since those worked when I wrecked my leg in January. I tried the anxiety pill the whacked out shrink gave me to try. Nothing is inducing sleep, and that’s counting the more traditional remedies that have already failed.
However, I can try boring myself to sleep by reading this post, so I’ll say goodnight and go check out the TV shopping. They’re always perky at 4, I can thank them for that.