Sleep Happens (Except When It Doesn't)

You know you're in trouble when your co-worker starts dropping pamphlets entitled Anxiety?, Depression? and Talk Therapy! on your desk.  Yesterday, I arrived at work to find a National Geograhic article on "The Science of Sleep." I guess the writing's on the wall. It's time to come clean. My name is Lauren, and I have trouble sleeping.

I've had trouble sleeping for nearly as long as I can remember. In middle school, I suffered from sleep paralysis. This is a relatively common phenomenon when you're awake, or half-awake, but can't move or talk despite an overwhelming perception of evil being in the vicinity. I used to hear the sound of maracas shaking, and getting closer, but the more I tried to move or scream, the more paralyzed I felt. In high school, I began sleep-walking around my family house, waking to find my mother guiding me back to bed after my attempts to unlock the front door or sort the linen closet. This carried over into college, where my roommates told wicked tales of me sitting up in my bed in the middle of the night, glaring at them and whispering, "You, bitches!" before falling dramatically back to sleep. The summer before my junior year of college, I shared a suite with a gal I couldn't stand, and ended up in her room one night, pawing through her panty drawer. When she woke up, I woke up, too, and found myself fumbling nonsensically for an apology.

In my early adulthood, I found myself struggling to share a bed with Adam. I was so fearful that he would witness my sleepwalking, but alas, it seemed as though I had finally found peace. That is, until the night I dreamt I was being attacked by a gang of men, and woke up biting Adam on the arm. He woke up yelling, glaring at me wondering what kind of wild woman he was dating, and I was at an all-time low. Luckily, he was quick to forgive, and the last several years my strange sleep behavior (ripe with uncontrollable crying, laughing, yelling or perplexing one-sided conversation) has left him with plenty of fodder for teasing. I guess after that biting him thing, I deserve it.

Now, though, things are starting to change. What before had been a behavioral issue seems to now have manifested into a physical one. I wake up panicked, gasping for breath, with overwhelming feelings of dread and thoughts of dying. Sleeping has become scary for me because I know that I likely won't get through the night without suffering an anxiety attack. After several months of going through my workday feeling like the walking dead, I knew it was time for a change. I couldn't do it anymore. So, I got my doctor on board, got a referral, and scheduled a night for a sleep study.

I was so excited to go...to finally go to sleep, and have them solve whatever ails me. Although it was strange to be away from my family for a night, and I felt myself missing them, the idea of be cured was so appealing that I packed up my overnight bag with glee. I arrived at the sleep center excited for whatever might come. I didn't realize what all would come. The wires, and the wires, and oh yeah, the wires. The ones pasted down to my scalp, my forehead, my temples and cheeks. Oh, and those slithering down my pant legs to attach to my ankles. And just in case my seasonal allergies don't have me sneezing enough during the night, don't forget to stuff the breathing sensors up my nostrils! It was an awful night of sleep. Where I had been hopeful and excited before, my mind grew exhausted, disappointed and frustrated. Once, during the night, after falling asleep for a few screamingly short minutes, I awoke with a shudder, perhaps because of my sleep anxiety, or perhaps instead because of the ten pounds of wire attached to the box that I trailed around everytime I shifted two inches. In any case, I silently whispered, "Yes! They got it!" hoping that the computer was able to process my wakening spell. At least something worthwhile might come from all this.

After a less-than-refreshing night of sleep, I went home to my family (where Bryony, awake with Dad and watching cartoons, thought I had been in the bathroom the whole time). I limped through the day, feeling even more exhausted than usual, then fell to bed that night. I still didn't sleep well. The sleepier I was, the worst I slept. It's been awful.

For some reason my sleep test results haven't been reported to my doctor four weeks after the fact. My sleep issues have scaled up to jaw clenching and teeth grinding, both of which I've done since childhood, but now to a more intense degree. I bought my first mouth guard at the drugstore yesterday. Any plans to woo Adam with my sexual prowess at night have been abandoned for a silicon mouthpiece that makes me sound like Cindy Brady circa 1969. So much for Bryony having a sibling...!

So that's the way it is. Sleep is scary and waking hours are exhausting.
Good night and good luck.

One Hundred Years of Titanic

I feel a need to jump on the anniversary bandwagon and mention that today is the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. In general, I am a maritime disaster enthusiast (yes, I'm actually admitting that); the most important aspect of our family trip to Michigan's Upper Peninsula was for me to visit the Shipwreck Museum at Whitefish Point. And unlike the rest of the normal populace, Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," played on loop in the museum, never got old for me. Once upon a time (and once again, in recent months) I toyed with the idea of joining the US Coast Guard. The ability to learn new skills and to be a part of such a vast oceanscape is so very appealing. I haven't quite let that one go...

Titanic, Edmund Fitzgerald, Lusitania, Andrea Doria...famous ships that foundered for various reasons (some unknown). I think I love the drama that surrounds the mystery and mechanics of the sinkings, the dynamics of social class hierarchy, as well as the unimaginable desparation the passengers felt. I can't fathom looking at a cold, cold ocean, knowing that it would be my final resting place. There's a devastating romanticism about it.

So, while Rose and Jack were pure fiction, I often think of the many women on lifeboats who watched the Titanic go down with their men still on board. I think about saying a final farewell to Adam as I row to safety, and then see the ship he's stranded on fall into a watery grave. Unbearable.

So, one hundred years on, I want to honor the more than 1500 passengers and crewmembers who so senselessly lost their lives. Your legacies live on.

Potty Humor

I feel a need to lighten the atmosphere a bit after my last few posts, although I apologize if switching from serious social issues to potty humor is abrupt or seemingly disrespectful...

I've been wanting to post this for awhile, but have been stalling for I-don't-know-what-reasons. Maybe afraid my coworkers will read it? Maybe afraid no one will and I'll have written all of this stuff for naught?

Well, the long and short of it is that I haven't quite mastered workplace toilet etiquette. I know, this sounds gross already and I've barely written anything. But, bear with me. I'm the type of person who can comfortably carry on a conversation with a friend while we're both on the throne--I mean, everyone has to go, so why is it such a sensitive issue?--and not think twice about it. But I realize there are those who find this most despicable, and so I often find myself in murky waters (pardon the pun). How does one know if a conversation can continue while both participants are attending to...well, their royal subjects??

I also like to know who I'm in the bathroom with, so I have this habit of noticing the shoes of the person in the next stall. If it's someone I recognize and am friendly with, I'll usually totally spook them out by saying in a whispered ghost voice, "Hiiii, Jennnnn!" Nine times out of ten, the person knows it's me, because after all, who else would be so incredibly ridiculous to try to scare someone in a bathroom stall? But, I also like to know if the head boss of our office is in the next stall, so that I can refrain from creating any unpleasantness in her presence.

Which brings me to the next and final issue. When is it okay to pinch the loaf, drop off the kids, drop a bomb? Must one wait until the entire bathroom is empty, or can you assume that since everyone poos, everyone will be understanding of your poo? I have tried the "waiting it out" game, only to find that inevitably five people enter the bathroom while I'm holding the kids at bay. One time, I waited so patiently for someone to leave the bathroom that they evidently didn't know I was in there, and they turned the light out on me when they left. I had to do some serious "holding in", get myself in order, leave the stall to turn the light back on, and then get back to business. Yeesh. I've also tried the "wait till the person next to you flushes" routine, but timing the exercise with someone else's flushing habit can be tricky. And still, the odoriferousness issue is still present. I've been told about doing a "courtesy flush" if you're in the middle of a poo when someone enters the bathroom, although I imagine the offensive aroma has already permeated? Plus, I work for a conservation organization, so wasting water seems a bit blasphemous to me. Lately, I've been doing a combination of "wait it out" and "wait till they flush" but I never really feel like I'm winning in the race for bathroom etiquette.

All in all, I'm starting to think there is really no good way of handling these situations, and so perhaps we just do what we have to do. Although, one method that, while hilarious, is partially effective is to literally wait until the bathroom is unoccupied. Several times I've been in the bathroom, heard the door open, then close, with no one enter. Once I've washed hands and left, a suspicious-looking lady, fraught with ants-in-the-pants harriedness, runs into the bathroom past me.

I guess that's one way of doing things.

Afraid of the Dark

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Snippets

Is anyone else as emotionally exhausted by the state of the world as I am? Bombings, murders, war, ugly politics, child abuse, environmental destruction. My heart is heavy and overwhelmed. It's not enough to just turn off the tv or radio...I feel a need to do something--something bigger than myself--to save the world. I just don't know what I can do, or how to do it, or if it will actually work. I want to do something, or at least try.

'Cause just recycling and composting doesn't seem to be cutting it anymore.