I was at the bookstore tonight to work, get coffee and socialize (not necessarily in that order, though I did get a fair amount of work done) and I found this neat little book called The Insomniac’s Handbook: A Companion for the Nocturnally Challenged, which of course had my picture on the cover. Okay, it didn’t, but it should have.
I have been an insomniac for as long as I can remember. Even when I was a little kid, I had trouble falling asleep. I clearly recall being awake (or faking being asleep) through many, many naps when I was four or five years old. I just couldn’t sleep. In fact, I discovered Santa Claus in my living room at three in the morning when I was five years old. Imagine his surprise.
I didn’t really know I was abnormal until some point in middle school when I caught part of a science show about sleep on PBS. They said it takes the average person five to seven minutes to fall asleep at night. Five to seven minutes?? I was shocked. I regularly take an hour-- and often longer-- to fall asleep. Not only that, I wake up on average two to three times a night, though once every few weeks I’ll have a night where I wake up nearly every hour.
After spending my entire life being awake when the rest of the world is asleep, I’m kind of used to it. I suppose if I had a more traditional work schedule, it might be a bigger issue. Though in the past, even when I’ve had 9 to 5 jobs (or 7 to 3 jobs, in a couple of cases), it took me forever to fall sleep and I still woke up during the night. I just compensated for it by going to bed earlier. No big deal.
Insomnia is such a part of who I am that on the rare occasion when I sleep for five or six hours straight, I’m out of sorts when I wake up. I feel disappointed, like I missed out on something. My record for number of hours of uninterrupted sleep is probably around seven, and that only happens when I’m either medicated because I’m sick or have run myself down over a period of time. As for falling asleep, there are probably a few days a month when I’m asleep in under half an hour. That’s not so bad, I guess, but I do some of my best thinking when I’m trying to fall asleep. I can’t have too many nights of falling asleep quickly, or I’d never get all my thinking done!
Sometimes I wonder if part of the reason I became a writer is because I had a chance to develop my imagination when I was kid. I would spin endless stories in my head while waiting for sleep to come. Often, I’d pick up a story from where I’d left off the night before, developing intricate plot lines with dozens of complicated characters. Of course, maybe the reason I’m an insomniac in the first place is because my imagination won’t let me sleep. Now, in addition to making up stories (many of which get fleshed out during daytime hours and go on to publication), I also work out my issues while waiting for sleep. I have mental conversations (and arguments) with people and solve all the problems of the world as the clock ticks toward the middle of the night.
Don’t get me wrong-- I love sleep as much as the next person. I love afternoon naps with the sun streaming in the windows and I love snuggling into warm flannel sheets in the winter (or crisp, cool cotton sheets in the summer) and drifting off to sleep. I just prefer the drift part to take a little while and I don’t mind waking up a couple times at night. It’s kind of nice to wake up when it’s dark, look at the clock and know I still have a few hours before I have to get up.
Granted, there are nights when I need to sleep because I have to get up early the next morning. Invariably, those are the nights I take forever to fall asleep and wake up several times throughout the night, unable to fall back to sleep once I wake up. It sucks, but it doesn’t happen all that often. Not enough to make me wish I wasn’t an insomniac, anyway.
When I found The Insomniac’s Handbook tonight, I was excited because I thought I’d discovered a book that was supportive of the insomniac’s experience. My excitement quickly turned to disappointment when I discovered it was mostly a how-to book for falling asleep. It had remedies and relaxation techniques and even lullabies to help ease the reader into sleep. Which, I suppose, some insomniacs might want. But not me. I was looking for creative ways to spend those sleepless hours, recipes for quick middle-of-the-night snacks, entertaining and quiet games to play while the rest of the house is asleep.
I want a book that embraces and accepts my insomnia the way I do! Insomnia isn’t a bad thing, it’s just different and a little challenging. Hmmm… maybe I should write that book myself. Who better to discuss the values of sleeplessness than an insomniac? I can see it now: The Insomniac’s Guide to Life: How to Have Fun and Entertain Yourself While Normal People Sleep. Of course, there will have to be a disclaimer about waking others who might not appreciate your late night musings. Not that I’d know anything about that, of course.
“Don’t get emotionally involved” should be tattooed backward on my forehead so I can read it every morning while contemplating my crazy mop of hair. Only, I would ignore that sage advice as I always have.
I am the queen of getting emotionally involved. From the time I was a young girl (with the same crazy mop of hair), I have let myself get drawn into other people’s lives and problems, trying to fix what’s broken, cure what’s ailing, heal what’s hurt. In the process, I’ve gotten hurt more than once myself. It’s not always easy to know the difference between a drama queen and a friend in need. Even with the real problems, it’s not always possible to make a difference. I know that, even though I may be too damned stubborn to admit it. Sometimes things are too broken to fix, the wounds too deep to heal. Sometimes, all you can do is hope. And sometimes you have to walk away.
I have found the easiest-- and hardest-- thing is to assume someone will do what’s right. It’s easiest because it is my nature to expect the best of people. It’s also the hardest because sometimes people screw up. Sometimes they do the exact opposite of what they should do and it is painful and destructive to everyone around them. Still, I’d rather expect the best and be disappointed once in awhile than to always be anticipating the worst. In my experience, people will live up-- or down-- to my expectations. I would rather raise them up, and walk whatever long, steep road I have to walk with them, than bring them down and cause even more damage to their spirit than they’ve already done to themselves.
As I have been reminded time and again, people have to want to help themselves before you can help them. The thing is, you don’t always know the day and time they’ll come to the realization they need help, so you have to be there-- patiently waiting, hoping and praying they figure it out before something goes horribly wrong. Whether it’s the friend in the waiting room of a clinic, eight weeks pregnant with bruises on her face and a fear her boyfriend is going to find out what she’s doing, or the friend who is staring into the bottom of a glass for the thousandth time, or the friend who just doesn’t feel like anything is worth caring about or living for anymore. Sometimes, all you can do is be there. And sometimes, that’s enough.
It would be so easy to turn my back, to walk away, to say it’s not my problem or to judge a situation that hits too painfully close to home. It’s so hard to stay put, listen quietly, lecture as often as necessary and endure watching someone hurt themselves while I hurt along with them. There have been times I have had to walk away because there was nothing more I could do and I was getting hurt by the situation. I hate giving up… hate it. It’s hell to live with that on my conscience and yes, I do feel responsible even if it’s not truly my responsibility. Because there, but for the grace of God, go I… and there, but for the love of someone who knew what to say (or faked it well) or knew when not to leave me alone, go I. It takes a lot for me to give up on someone. A lot. Because I don’t want to contemplate what it might have meant if the people I needed had given up on me.
You can’t save ‘em all, I’ve been told.
Why the hell not? I ask.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It started out innocently enough. I picked up a book at the bookstore even though I was currently reading a book and then I picked up another and another… until the books I’d bought were stacked to the ceiling waiting to be read, while I continued to buy more books. It is an addiction, a book addiction.
There was a time when I would re-read books because I’d read everything I owned. There was a time when I haunted the library, checking out books several times a week. Then about ten years ago, I started reviewing books for The Literary Times. I took on reviewing duties for a couple other magazines over the years, as well. Books came pouring in, from the magazines, from editors, from authors. I was reading three to five books a week, just trying to keep up. Instead of subsisting on a diet of review books only, I kept buying new books and squeezing them in where I could. Only, I rarely could. So the books accumulated as the review books took precedence until I found myself moving sixty-four boxes (yes, you read that right, sixty-four) of books from South Carolina to Rhode Island and then, six months later, from Rhode Island to Virginia. Of those untold number of books, I have read maybe half. HALF. Insanity, I tell you.
I frequently vow not to buy any more books until I’ve at least read a few dozen of the ones I already own. It doesn’t work for long. Soon, I’m at it again, buying a book that I absolutely must read. Or two, even. I check out books from the library, renew them twice, keep them until I’m getting overdue notices and then return them, unread. Why, why, why do I do this?
I love books. I love reading them, I love writing them. There are more books I want to read in the world right now than I could read in a lifetime, nevermind the new ones being published every day. Worse, there are more novel ideas in my head then I will be able to write in this lifetime. It makes me sad; so many good stories waiting for me, if only I could find the time to read them. So many good stories in my imagination, if only I had the time to write them.
My addiction has taken an ominous turn, I’m afraid. I’ve cut back on my book-buying for myself, though I still check books out from the library at an alarming rate. Now I’ve put the burden of my addiction on those closest to me by purchasing books for other people. Granted, I’ve always bought books as gifts. This is different. Where I used to buy a book for someone for a specific occasion, I’m now buying books with no occasion in mind.
I have three or four books sitting around right now that are for upcoming birthdays. I have another three or four books earmarked for specific people and their birthdays are months away. It’s crazy. I see a book I think someone would like and I don’t consider the fact that their birthday was a month ago and Christmas is ten months away. Who needs a special occasion to give a book, I ask myself. I will give the gift of reading year ‘round. I will be the Johnny Appleseed of books, spreading goodwill through literature.
I bought a book for a friend today. Her birthday is coming up and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about that purchase. I bought another book for myself… and I know that if I don’t read it in the next month, it will be relegated to the dusty piles climbing the walls. Next time, I’ll be better. Next time I won’t buy any books. Okay, next time I won’t buy any books for myself. Okay, next time I’ll only buy a book for myself if I absolutely, positively must have it and intend to read it within the week.
Help me, someone.
Oh, wait… I bet there’s a book out there about book addiction…
As I’ve mentioned, I grew up in south Florida. Sunshine and oranges and a crime rate that would send most people scurrying to hide under their beds. You know, all the good stuff. It snowed once in the entire twenty-three years I lived in Florida. I was in fourth grade. It was a huge deal, obviously. Lots of jokes about hell freezing over and whether it was really cocaine falling from the sky instead of snow. I remember that snowfall not because it was a freak occurence (and it probably lasted all of twenty minutes before evaporating in the humidity), but because it was the very first time I saw snow.
I’ve seen snow a few times since then, having moved to places where snow is not a freak occurence at all, but a winter non-event. Every time I see snow, I regress back to that nine year old girl who saw it for the first time and was enchanted. Soft white flakes drifting from a dark and cloudy sky, the air crisp with cold and the promise of something magical. A fresh snow fall is a wonder of nature to behold and enjoy.
Or so I thought until this winter.
I am so over snow, I can’t even tell you. It’s snowing and sleeting alternately tonight, with the promise of-- not magic-- more to come throughout the night. It’s February 15th and there is snow on the ground. The south Floridian in me considers Valentine’s Day to be the beginning of spring. Winter in Florida lasts for all of two months-- December and January. By mid-February, it’s time to bring out the shorts and open up the pools. So despite the fact that I haven’t lived in Florida in almost fourteen years, my internal body clock says it’s spring. My external body, however, is wearing three layers of clothing and freezing its ass off.
Of course, my dislike for this winter’s snow might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten to enjoy a snow day this winter. Virginia is both a state that gets snow and a state that is ill-prepared for snow because it really doesn’t snow that much. Which means a flurry of snowflakes is enough to close the schools and city buildings. That would be delightful, except that every snowfall we’ve had so far this winter (and I will confess it’s really only snowed three or four times-- but it stayed on the ground for weeks!) has occured on my days off. So not only do I not get to enjoy a snow day, I’m also trapped in my house because I’m a big scaredy cat who won’t drive in the snow. Trust me, it’s as much for your safety as it is for mine.
I’m ready for winter to be over. However, if it wants to snow on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, that would be just fine with me. I’ll take a snow day, even in February.
I probably should have checked my bag for my flight to Disney World. Why do I think this? Because at 3 a.m. the night before I left, I was seriously contemplating the question, “Do I really need to floss on vacation?” because dental floss would add weight to the bag. I took the floss, though. I also checked my bag on the return trip.
Disney World is that odd combination of vacation wonderland and nightmare. If you are childless, it can be quite an event navigating hotels, theme parks and restaurants what with all the whining, screaming and pouting. And I’m talking about the adults, not the children. What is it about Disney World that makes parents think every moment must be filled with joy and excitement? The phrase, “We are going to have fun!” should not be an ultimatum.
People who dress up in animal costumes scare me. This is a new phobia. I had my picture taken with a giant furry bear and I’m having nightmares.
You have not truly lived until you have ridden a bus with a singing Latina bus driver named Rosalita. Her version of Bingo goes: “There was a mouse who had a dog and Pluto was his name-O.” Fun stuff, even sober.
I have determined that the Magic Kingdom is a dry park because otherwise parents would leave their children on The Ride to Hell (otherwise known as It’s a Small World) while they did tequila shots with Mickey. It’s a Small World is the longest, most boring, tedious amusement park ride in the world and I love it dearly. I hope they never get rid of it. I’m still mourning the loss of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
Motion sickness is a very evil thing. When I get my pictures developed, I’ll post a picture to prove it. (Kidding, Rose. Just kidding. Maybe.)
It’s nice to know I’m not the only insomniac in the world. I met some interesting people sitting by the pool at 2:30 in the morning.
Drinks at Pleasure Island are very expensive and very potent. Go Disney.
Rose is the very best person to stand in line with while singing along and dancing to 80s tunes sung by a guy in a purple wig and punk glasses. Even if she was sober and I wasn’t. Maybe especially because she was sober and I wasn’t. That’s love, right there.
And now for all the rest:
Best meal: Eggplant Parmesan at Mama Melrose’s, MGM
Best dessert: Chocolate cake at Planet Hollywood
Best drink: Rum runners at the Adventure Club
Best other dessert: Soft serve ice cream in Animal Kingdom
Best other drink: Cool Runnings rum runners at Planet Hollywood
Best Animal Experience: The bat cave in Animal Kingdom
Best Traveling Experience: Express check-in at the airport
Best Waitperson: J.T. at Planet Hollywood
Best Thrill Ride: Twilight Zone Tower of Terror
Best Actress in a Dramatic Role: Rose for convincing me she was feeling fine before we got on Tower of Terror
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Chocolate. Mmm… chocolate. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
