insomnia

I had a long period, more than ten years ago, when I had chronic insomnia related to menopause.  I might have thought I was going crazy but my friend Peggy, who I usually shared a room with at the four-times-a-year, four-day residential retreats we both attended at Spirited Work for several years, had not had the same insomnia issue. What a relief to not feel alone. We tossed and turned across our tiny room in the Farmhouse, both awake and silent and, meaningfully, not alone in our suffering.

It was awful.  Day after day, I never knew if I'd get any sleep. And most days, sleep came in tiny bits that were never enough.

In recent years, I have tended to stay up late writing. And reading. Writers gotta read, fish gotta swim.

In recent weeks, suddenly I gave up my nocturnal living and returned, for the first time in maybe fifteen years, I'd go to bed before midnight, arise between six or seven and, well, feel normal.

The last two nights:  insomnia. I cannot sleep.

And I know why.  I am roiling emotionally over a decision I have to make, tossing and turning as I weigh the pros and cons.

Right now I am full of meds that should knock me out and nothing. I remain wide awake, tossing and turning.

I don't like insomnia.