Night Moves
Was it insomnia or being a night person in a day person world?
I have had insomnia since I can remember. My first memories are of me in bed unable to sleep. By the time I hit 4th grade I was listening to Mystery Night Theater on the radio, though my mom thought I was fast asleep. I’d often be awake until 1:00 a.m., even though I had to be up by 7:00 for school. This pattern lasted through all my school years. In college I learned to move my classes to 11:00 or later.
Then work came along, and I tried to calm my mind only to have the clock winking 12:34 a.m. at me. I knew I had to sleep, or I’d feel awful, so I turned to alcohol. That didn’t help one bit, and after the first three nights I gave that up. I had to survive with hardly any sleep.
Until I became a mom. My doctor finally relented and handed me an antidepressant to help regulate my anxiety over sleep, plus it knocked me out fairly well. I still woke with each baby though. Ambien made me feel relaxed but not sleepy. Sonata was interesting, but sleep never arrived. So I’d take an antidepressant and fall asleep at midnight and make it work.
Here’s the thing, though. I am from a family of night owls on my mother’s side. As in stay-up-until-the-crack-of-dawn night owls. I’d play with my kids, only to find my eyes closing. Reading books in the morning was impossible, so I learned to be physical in the mornings to keep myself awake. Play-groups, cleaning, dancing with the kids. Anything to stay alert.
When they went to school I’d run at 6:00 in the morning only to feel like I was in a dream. Later that day I had no idea if I worked out. I thought I hadn’t, since it felt so unreal. While volunteering at school, I’d labor to keep my eyes open while the children practiced reading or learning their times tables. I fought my body for many years.
When I became an empty-nester I started drifting toward my more natural inclination to stay awake; writing and reading past midnight. My neighbor would comment on how late I was up, so chagrined, I kept fairly decent and acceptable hours. But. When I moved to the house in the woods I didn’t have anyone to check on my lights or how late I stayed up.
I found myself enjoying the quiet of the night, and I headed to bed around 3:00 or so. Some nights it’s almost 4:30 before I fall asleep, even if I’ve tried shutting down hours earlier. Sometimes.
I have met so many people who try to tell me I’m sick because of the hours I keep. They have no idea of how I struggled against my body clock, and I think I’m sick in part due to running counter to my nature for so long.
I have discovered waking up at 11:30 and moving slowly for the first hour or two helps me feel better. So why do I have to endure a friend who wakes up at 4:00 a.m., since she can’t sleep past that hour, so she texts and tells me to “Wake up sleepyhead!” Well, I wasn’t a sleepyhead at 2:00 a.m. And then she dares to tell me my staying up late is making me sick!
People who say that have it all wrong!
All those early hours, straining mightily against my internal clock were bad. All those years spent surviving on less than seven or six hours of sleep were bad on my system. I could feel it. Just like all those hours spent with my children at the neighborhood pool here made me feel incredibly exhausted (I fought that too). I think the sun was bringing on lupus, except my doctor called it fibromyalgia for years. Until a new doctor tested me and said I might have lupus. Well, I did. It runs in the family.
As does this body that wants to stay up late. Since I can’t be in the sun as I’m very photosensitive, why can’t I enjoy the light of the moon or just the stars? Why do I have to endure people telling me if I went to bed before midnight I’d feel better? No, I never did! I feel so much better this way! This is what I’ve been meant to do all along, except society says it’s wrong and I’m lazy. I won’t buy the lie. I won’t!
I have decided to tell people I cannot meet until the afternoon. I won’t do mornings. I’m doing this for my own well-being.
Well, it’s almost midnight. I’m just hitting my stride. Or as my mom would say, “It’s the shank of the evening.” Indeed it is.
