Counting Sheep is for the Easy Sleepers

It's 4:41 in the morning as I write this. There is a summer-storm brewing outside my bedroom window, and when I push open the glass the sound of chirping birds filters through the blinds.

I haven't slept yet.

There is no one reason for my being awake. At least, no one reason that explains the persistence of it.

Right now, I might attribute it to the chirping birds, but yesterday it was the reverberation of someone's footsteps down the staircase. Ten years ago it was the ticking of my ceiling fan when it was on, and the creaking of a floorboard when it was off. Lately it's been the irregular thumping of the pulse at my neck. Sometimes my heartbeat feels like an echo that's caught in the cave of my skeleton. It amplifies every soundwave, I don't know how to not hear it.

But apparently everyone else does.

"Just go to bed earlier" "You need a proper sleep-schedule" "Have you tried not using your phone before bed?" "Maybe it's time to quit coffee?"

I've been told all of these things - and more - primarily by people who have never experienced insomnia. And I've even been told not to call it that... insomnia - because apparently that's too serious a condition, and I shouldn't throw words like that around without adequate proof. I wonder if 18 years of inconsolable sleep issues is adequate proof...

My first memory of inconsolable wakefulness was when I was eight years old. This was back in 2003, when my designated bed-time was 8pm and rising for school was a non-disputed 8am. I had never heard of a mobile phone, and it would be ten years before my first cup of coffee. Needless to say, there was no 'sensible' explanation for me to be experiencing sleep disturbances, so it was left untreated, and thus... it persisted.

Twelve years later, I became the designated 'classroom sleeper.'

On many a dreary afternoon, I found myself drifting off during history-class. When my head lay cradled in the crook of my arm, and my hair shielded my soft breathing from my classmates, I assumed it was by sheer luck that I'd slept through the lesson undisturbed by my teacher. It's only now - as the rain begins to fall against my window pane at 5:37am - that I realise it was a gift, given to me by my patient professor, who made the conscious decision to let me sleep.

I was never called out at University, either. Waking up in the middle of a busy lecture hall never came as a surprise to me. I'd known that I slept best under counterintuitive conditions since I was eight years old. If there was a space and time in which I shouldn't be sleeping, that's where you would find me, and my place of rest was never exclusive to the classroom.

I've spent many years sleeping on the cold-hard tiles of bathroom and kitchen floors.... the first time I tried it, I was eight. When I was 14, I liked the cold linoleum of my bedroom, and one Christmas eve my family found me curled up on the kitchen floor, where I had eventually resigned after not being able to block out the tossing and turning of my sleeping siblings.

It was between the ages of 17 to 21 that I learned to sleep on the cold-floor of my ensuite bathroom by default. I needed a way to escape my (ex) partners snoring, so once he had fallen asleep I would drag a blanket into the bathroom and snuggle up in a ball. I would set an alarm for 4am, which gave me just enough time to sneak back to bed without him ever noticing I was gone. The dominant part of me didn't want to make him feel responsible for my restless nights, but I always had the dormant wish that he would take responsibility, and do something about his breathing problems. He never did.

Despite how unbearable a sleepless night is for me, it hasn't always been a matter of doom and gloom.

My late kicking melatonin means that I'm always up for a party, and for some odd reason I perform exceptionally well at my retail job the less hours I have slept. It's similar to the Summer Effect from 500 Days of Summer;

No matter how tired or delirious I am, the customer surveys keep coming back glowing. I think there might be a 25% spike in revenue on the days when I'm delirious, but if we're going to paint an accurate picture I encourage you to imagine me not as Zoe Deschanel, but as Squidward after a long and sleepless night...

Yep, that about sums me up.

My current partner of three years once told me that a good business idea would be to record me in secret on the days where I haven't slept, and uploading the stream of consciousness as a podcast. According to him, people would pay big bucks for the luxury of listening to my ramblings, but I think he's just grown accustomed to it.

Indeed, he has grown so accustomed to my random sleep schedule that 'good morning' has replaced the word 'hello' as a way of greeting. He greets me with good morning anytime I wake, regardless of it being 7pm, or 3am. It's become a term of endearment that we share, and it is now so ingrained in our vocabulary that I made reference to it in my entry for the Vocal's Doomsday Diary Challenge, which conveniently prompted the writer to write a post-apocalyptic story in which you mention a heart-shaped locket.

A few months earlier to the challenges announcement, my partner and I had placed a heart-shaped lock with the words 'good morning' etched into the surface at our favourite date spot. That lock and the location became the linchpins of my Doomsday Story. During some iteration (that didn't make it into the final draft) I made reference to the etching, claiming that the lock read 'good morning' because whilst I might never rise early enough to see a sunrise, the lock that overlooked the lake would never miss one.

Aside from my partner and a modest sprinkle of empathetic family members, friends, and colleagues who appreciate me despite the insomnia, I more often feel as though I am seriously misunderstood because of it. I wish that my insomnia could be contained to analogies of echoing caves, and the glowing customers surveys, but the reality is that it stretches beyond metaphors and customer reviews and into my personal life as a serious condition.

I've often had my insomnia explained away by other - less flattering -explanations. I've been the 'girl who can't stick to a schedule', someone who 'apathetically cancels on plans', the one who simply 'chooses' not to show up, and worst of all, someone who is lazy. These presumptions are incredibly hurtful; they paint me not as someone who has an issue that needs to be treated, but as someone who makes poor decisions without a thought for the consequences. But this simply isn't the case.

I don't choose to be tired. In-fact, I've spent most of my life trying not to be, and it's not just falling asleep that causes me issues - it's staying asleep that is difficult as well.

Before last-nights bout of insomnia (which is now 'this morning' at 6:28am), my most recent episode was less than a week ago. After finally managing to fall asleep in the early morning, I was abruptly awoken by the sound of my own screaming. This was my first taste of night (or morning) terrors, and instead of dwelling on what it might mean, I casually added 'night-terrors' into the repertoire of recurring issues that have been and will continue to be responsible for my wakefulness.

I accepted this as my reality many years ago, but I've often made the mistake of allowing myself to feel guilty about it. But I'm deciding - at this very moment - that I no longer want this for myself. I'm finally ready to come to terms with a simple fact...

Counting Sheep is for the Easy Sleepers

No amount of lavender sprits pillow cases, warm cups of chamomile tea, or honeyed glasses of milk will give me the rest that so many people enjoy naturally. I've tried every trick in the book, and every combination of natural remedies that the easy sleepers have on offer. I started when I was eight, and I've been counting sheep ever since.

And I think I'm finally ready to seek professional treatment.