Bedtime Story

Did you ever want to wake up and discover that the last 20 years or so have only been a dream (like one of those "be careful what you wish for" episodes of "Twilight Zone")? That, as it turns out, you have that much of your life still ahead of you, and have been forewarned by the dream about which paths in your life you should follow (or not)?

Backward, go backward, o time in thy flight
and I promise that next time I'll get it right.

What I'd like to do is wake up to find out I'd slept through the night.

I had no idea that it took the average person twenty minutes to fall asleep after hitting the sack. I acquired such knowledge where I learned most of the important things I know: via "The Hollywood Squares." Finding that out certainly has enriched my life more than algebra, which I've never needed once since high school.

It's never taken me less than an hour to fall asleep, if I do at all.

The people who konk out the minute their heads hits the pillow will never understand the plight of the insomniac. You could go to sleep if you really wanted to, they jeer. All you have to do is just relax. Never tell anybody to relax. The irony of the word relax is that the second syllable is an irritant that defeats its own purpose: re-laaaakkksss.

Doctors are no help, either. Nothing bores a doctor more than to have to listen to patients whining, "I can't sleep." So all most of them will do is yell at you to stop drinking coffee. I've never drunk a cup of coffee in my life, and can't even bear the smell of it (should I ever commit a capital crime, never mind the lethal injection, just lock me overnight in a Starbuck's--I'll be gone by morning), but the doctor will just give me a look pitying my denial. The brother of a friend of mine runs a sleep disorders clinic in a San Francisco hospital; he told me that he winds up telling most of his clients, "You're probably depressed, go into therapy." I hate to contradict a professional, but some of the best sleep I've ever gotten was when I was depressed. There's an anti-depressant pill currently advertised on television; its side effects include insomnia.

A troubled bladder is more apt to keep you awake than a troubled mind. After your fourth or fifth trip to the bathroom you begin to understand why they're called the wee hours.

Some doctors will give you three pills (and a stern lecture about Drug Addiction if you ask for more); others will hand them out like Tic Tacs, just to shut you up. These will do the trick, but usually you'll wake up feeling worse than if you hadn't slept. Diphenhydramine (the over-the-counter stuff) is of little use to the true career insomniac.

You might as well get out of bed once you realize you're as wide awake as you were an hour ago. If audio lullabyes--like those "white noise" contraptions you can buy--fail you, try exercise, or bake something, or clean house, or start that novel (or some other creative endeavor). How virtuous and productive you'll feel, getting things accomplished while the rest of the world is snoozing away on its lazy ass. Of course your little project has to be something that won't wake or keep others up. (Insomnia presents special challenges to relationships. The other person always thinks, Is it me? If you can't afford separate bedrooms, stay single.)

Interestingly, it's the sleepers who are the most grouchy in the morning, and more inclined to complain, "I'm ti-yerd." Insomniacs are polite, unobtrusive, undemanding zombies. We function all right, but usually in second gear until about lunchtime. Another thing we have in common is an affinity for New York City--it never sleeps, either.