I'll Drink to That!

“To sleep, perchance to dream.” So says Hamlet. Granted, he was speaking of death, but I suggest things might have gone better for him if he’d just gotten a decent night’s sleep. Instead, Hamlet spirals out of control, ruins his relationships and takes advice from a ghost. From my perspective, the prince was clearly suffering from insomnia. And I can relate. Although my soliloquy would begin, “To sleep or not to sleep: that is the obsession.”

You see, sleep is all I think about lately. To an excruciating point, simply because I’m not getting any. Listen, I do my part: I go to bed, place my head upon a pillow, and close my eyes. In the past, sweet slumber followed. But now, it appears Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, has dumped me, evidently for the guy in bed next to me who practically flaunts his slumbering prowess. He sleeps like a log, that is, if the log wore earplugs and an eye-mask. If he weren’t my husband, I’d turn on the lights and demand he keep me company. 

Meanwhile, I’m a spasmodic-uncoordinated gymnast, frustratingly tossing and turning throughout the night. I’m a fish out of water, flipping around as if I’m fighting for my life. I’m an electron in constant motion . . . whoa, that’s a whole lot of metaphors! Pardon my overwrought-ness, I’m so tired, I can’t think straight or logically or intelligently . . . oh no, make it stop!

Undeniably, my insomnia impacts my thinking. Perhaps it’s because I’m up all night - thinking! Anguishing about every decision I’ve ever made in my life (or didn’t make). Of course, that’s interspersed with rampant worthless worry: did I unplug the electric kettle, is there enough air in my tires, how long will my teeth last, and what did I write in that email? Then, there’s my nighttime go-to preoccupation: By the minute calculating how many hours I have left to sleep. This is the math equivalent of hell.  

Speaking of fire and brimstone, I must mention the extreme temperature volatility that happens in bed. If I’m not freezing cold, I’m in the tropics: hot and sweaty. My pillow? A charcoal briquette on fire!  

Please, I beg, do not give me tips for a better night’s rest. I’m already exhausted by the number of sleep hacks I’ve tried. Like breathing. (As if I don’t do that already!) At this point, I’m a pro at the “4-7-8 Technique,” “Box Breathing,” and even “The Papworth Method.” Although, I question the worth of Papworth. First you do it sitting up! How is that conducive to sleeping? Next, you listen for breath sounds from your stomach. I don’t know about you, but I ended up in the kitchen eating a sleeve of Oreos. Hey! I was just listening to my stomach. 

Others recommend brain games called “Cognitive Shuffling,” such as counting backwards. Or, there’s the well-known “Alphabet Category Game” where you name (and spell) an animal for each letter. Pro tip: for Z, if you get tired of zebra, throw in a zonkey now and then. 

By the way, what ever happened to counting sheep? Personally, I suspect all the sheep are busy working for Serta in their mattress advertising. Maybe that’s okay, after all, Oxford psychologists un-baaa-lieveably reported that counting sheep is shear-iously ineffective.

Let’s face it, I sleep like a baby: Crying! All I need to do to finish the deal is poop my pants. I can’t take it anymore! My doctor said as a result of being awake night after night, I’ve trained my body to not sleep. Apparently, my body looks forward to being alert and restless all night. Or to read an entire book in one night. Or to take countless trips to the bathroom “just in case” (probably why I’m not pooping my pants). Or to spend countless hours wracking my nerves. This was tough news to hear. First, I’ve never trained for anything in my life, why would I pick this? Second, how do you un-train? 

Well, I finally found one thing that does make a difference: Giving up my nightly glass of wine. That jammy red I sipped while watching my favorite gritty, hyper-realistic medical show where someone dies a wretched death every twelve minutes. Ah, it was so relaxing.

Turns out my nightly pinot noir is a wolf in sheep’s clothing - (seems the one sheep I did not count). As our body metabolizes alcohol, the initial calming effects wane and are replaced by wakefulness and heightened agitation. Drinking right before bed disrupts our sleep cycles and considerably reduces deep, restorative REM sleep. You know, the kind of rest that’s critical to cognitive functions like learning, memory, emotional regulation and, for me, not overusing metaphors.  

Now, I drink a cup of hot water before bed. Yes, I’m officially old. I’d like to say I don’t miss the wine, but that’d be a lie. So to soothe myself, I remember that even Hamlet refused to drink the (albeit poisoned) wine at the end of the play, clearly prioritizing his long-term health. That is, until he was stabbed to death. 

Forsooth, I have absolutely nothing to whine about. Cheers!