For the past two months, I’ve been suffering from a serious case of insomnia. No, not a sudden appreciation for the classic 90s tune, but a harrowing inability sleep.
I really empathise with Maxi Jazz (note, I did just Google ‘Faithless lead singer’). No, I’m not dreaming of making mad love to my girl on the heath, but Jesus Christ, am I dreaming of just dreaming.
At 3am, sometimes even 5am, I find myself lying awake desperately trying to break the cycle of overthinking falling asleep, when all I want to do is fall sleep. On nights when I’ve been so physically exhausted and collapsed at 10pm, I’m inevitably awoken in the early hours as my mind overflows with mundane contemplations.
Me: I’ve been having trouble sleeping, sometimes I’m awake for hours just thinking about what I’ve been watching on TV.
My doctor: Love Island? It’s stressful knowing that it’s over.
On one exceptionally bad night, I lay awake for hours pondering which Love Island contestant I would be most aligned with, whether I should I apply for the next series, and whether seeing clips of me running in slow motion would be deemed offensive by Ofcom.
Three weeks ago, as I lucidly dreamt about the budget Cornettos in my freezer, I felt a surge of heaviness fall upon me as though someone was sitting on my chest. Asleep but wide awake, I heard a booming, repetitive and broken transition screeching about the freezer door being open. I was so scared by the hallucination of defrosting ice creams that I awoke screaming and crying. Alongside terrible moods, bad skin, lacklustre hair and constant frustration, it turns out that sleep paralysis is yet another side-effect of sleep deprivation.
My mum read a Daily Mail article suggesting that insomnia is the new depression, another fun fad us millennials throw around to compete with one another. Yes, our most popular catchphrases might feature, “I’m SO tired”, but I will happily lose this game for a strong dose of horse tranquilliser (and not the fun kind).
In a desperate bid to catch some Z’s, I stayed at my grandma’s last Friday – the theory being she wouldn’t blast techno at 3am like my housemates. At this point I was running on approximately five hour’s sleep in two days; being continuously told I looked “pallid” and “unwell” were not welcome observations for my already fragile self-esteem. However, she did make a fair point about needing more judges like Judge Judy IRL. She just doesn’t take any shit, ya know?
My side-table now looks like a Witch Doctor’s chemist, and turning nocturnal has near-bankrupted me.
People keep asking if there’s something on my mind that might be worrying me. Among other things there’s the constant fear of my card being declined when buying a Kit-Kat (again), that I may be just another failed writer, that I might never own a farm with Chris from Love Island and that I might die from insomnia.
I googled that, and apparently no one has died from insomnia. If that’s the legacy I leave, let’s just say I’ll be far from impressed. I’ll be dead. Then again, surely anything’s better than someone on 8-hours commenting that “you are being a Mrs Moody-Pants this morning”, every morning.
Images via Giphy.