It's the middle of the night, and here I am awake. Again. Throughout my life I have periodically dealt with periods of insomnia. My first experience with sleep difficulties came in eighth grade. 1988 is a year that I'd like to forget. It was the height of awkward adolescence, my parents had both remarried, I changed schools and was greeted by a bunch of girls (a high proportion of which her blond and named "Amy") who decided they despised me. I started having migraine headaches, headaches so bad that I actually threw up all over myself on the school bus one day. That did nothing to help my popularity. Some time in the fall I seemed to lose the ability to sleep. The more I thought about it, the worse it would get. As night would fall I would feel a horrible sense of dread. At dinner I would begin to anticipate the quiet of midnight. At bedtime I would toss and turn and cry in frustration. I don't know exactly how long this period lasted, but I remember the greatest relief of all came when I discovered that a combination of George Winston and Little House On The Prairie could put me to sleep.
These days I have no trouble falling to sleep. Exhausted I need only to close my eyes and I'm gone. It's one am that gets me. I wake up, and I'm usually wide awake for a couple of hours. It's terribly frustrating as I know that even on a Saturday the day will start early.
I suppose I could be productive during these middle of the night hours. I could do a load of laundry, mop the kitchen floor or even do some candidate sourcing, but all of those ideas seem terribly unattractive. I'm tired. I just can't...sleep. So here I am. Babbling into cyberspace. Writing a post that is essentially nothing but a request for pity.
Apparently middle of the night blogging isn't a good idea either. Sorry.
But here I am. Typing about.. nothing.