I must have seen two dozen magazine and newspaper articles since September on the effects of stress, anxiety and trauma-induced depression.
Thousands of people are apparently carrying these problems to work, compromising productivity. Of course it’s hard to concentrate on doing a job you’re worried about losing. And how can you stay alert when visions of unemployment lines flicker through your dreams?
“Ah, sleep, that knits the raveled sleeve of care. To sleep, perchance to dream, aye there’s the rub,” as the Bard so vividly wrote.
Are we resisting sleep because we’re afraid of terrifying dreams?
It’s hard for me to relate. Ever since I gave up caffeine, I’ve been borderline narcoleptic. I’ve nodded off while reading, in movie theaters, watching TV. Well, not during West Wing, but most of the rest is definitely soporific. Who couldn’t fall asleep listening to Regis or Conan or Ann Robinson?
I worry about falling asleep with the TV on because who knows what kind of garbage is going into your brain while your conscious mind is in sleep mode, unable to screen out unwanted suggestions. I slipped under in the middle of some dreary drama and woke up in the land of infomercials. How scary is that? I might have developed an uncontrollable urge to buy an exercise machine or a juicer.
Actually, I did have one six-month bout with insomnia. If anyone has ever called you Mommy, you’ve been through this one too. Mothers learn to float at the edge of sleep. Every sound from the nursery-a little groan, a whimper, a cough-is a wake-up call. Fathers may occasionally have trouble falling asleep, but once in dreamland, they hear nothing. The Coast Starlight could rumble through the boudoir and they’d never budge. They could snore through a scud missile attack and never miss a Z.
In the beginning, with a new baby, moms are so tired they can get out of bed, change a diaper, heat a bottle, bring up a burp and fall back into bed without ever being fully awake. But later, when the little darlings can climb out of bed, toddle down the hall and wail, “Mommy, I have to go potty,” that’s when the insomnia thing hits. Sweetums has toddled right past the bathroom on the way to interrupting your slumber, not once, not twice, but three or four times a night. That’s when you find out it’s hard to get back to sleep. Partly because you’re getting annoyed after the second or third trip, and partly because when you’re back in bed, you keep listening for the little footsteps. No one knows sleep deprivation like the mother of a 2-year-old.
After several months of nocturnal interruptions, I consulted my pediatrician, who was also a psychiatrist and could spot a mother with shredded nerves, teetering on the brink, capable of committing a horrible crime. (Where do you think lawyers came up with the postpartum depression defense?) The wise doctor taught me how to hypnotize myself so I could fall asleep and would wake up only if it was really necessary, like if the house was on fire or the Prize Patrol was ringing the doorbell. Bingo. It worked like a charm. Potty training may have taken a minor backstep, but who cared. I slept like a baby and woke up like new, nerve endings repaired, sanity restored, temperament, well, tempered.
Ever since then, it’s been the complete opposite. I could fall asleep on a pile of old shoes.
Once I even fell asleep on the train to Del Mar, and woke up in San Diego. At 11 o’clock at night, with no more northbound trains till morning. I had to take a cab and didn’t have enough money to pay the driver, who had to drive me to an ATM. Mortifying.
Anyway, all you stressed out insomniacs, take heart. At least you can drive at night without worrying about dozing off and rear-ending a semi, or crashing through a freeway sound wall. You don’t have to touch ice cubes to your temples, hold your head out the window, turn the radio to KROC. And when you’re desperate for sleep, just turn on Conan or Geraldo, curl up on the couch and close your eyes. But do ask the mom in your family to turn off the tube before the infomercials come on. Waking up to Richard Simmons could send you round the bend.
Perchance to dream. ZZZZZ.