I don’t sleep much. I used to. My husband Tom used to call me a stress narcoleptic – when I got stressed out, I’d get tired and nap a lot. Not depression tired, just brain-tired.
Now I’m lucky if I get 5 hours a night. About once a week, I don’t sleep at all. It’s after midnight now, and I’m not even close to tired, even after today’s shenanigans. I think I’ve seen every Law & Order ever broadcast.
I could do something about it. I have a prescription for Ativan, for anxiety and sleep problems. But I have this irrational notion that if I need meds, I’ve given up. I know it’s irrational – I feed my kid 10 pills a day, after all – but it still sticks in my craw. I gave up last year – my shrink put me on antidepressants – and I felt crappy the whole time. The withdrawals were intense when I decided I’d had enough and weaned myself off of them. I had the spins for a month.
Tom sleeps pretty well, but he’s a self-medicator. Scotch is his medication of choice. I’m not a big drinker. I think it’s a control thing. I hate being out of control.
And I’m always out of control, it seems.