I tried counting sheep, but they are behaving like teenagers on ecstasy at a rave. Bouncing off the walls, full on cracked out.
Insomnia is a bitch.
My sleep cycle has been royally fucked up for about a month now, due in part, I think, to no longer having the medication I’m prescribed. I didn’t take a sleeping pill exactly, but the combination of meds I used to take each night definitely helped me to fall asleep. I haven’t had any medication for about a month and a half.
So, here I sit, at 0300, whining about sleep.
Lack of sleep is detrimental to your physical and mental health. When your body isn’t getting the sleep it requires, things start shutting down. I have Fibromyalgia (among other things) so I already deal with “fibro fog” fairly regularly.
Lack of sleep seems to make that a lot worse, and causes it to happen more frequently.
I literally referred to the broom yesterday as “that thing, you know what I mean. It cleans the floor when you push it.” The word “broom” just wouldn’t come to me. It makes being understood a lot more difficult and is frustrating as hell. *I* knew what I was talking about, but my poor son had no clue.
It just makes me feel stupid, and that’s one feeling I can do without. I know I’m an intelligent person, but when this fog kicks in, I feel as if my IQ is hovering somewhere around 60.
Writing has always been therapeutic for me, but when it takes twice as long to write something, or even to come up with an idea, it stops being so helpful. And that is not okay with me at all.
Right now, I’m wishing these sheep would cooperate and let me count them in peace. To sleep, perhaps, to dream.
If you can’t sleep either, or are just interested in some historical fiction, check out this chapter of Bent Willows. It’s a collaborative piece written by Queer writers. This is my contribution to the saga! There are links within to go back to the beginning.