The Lonely, Quiet Pleasures of Insomnia

Originally written January 2011 • Uploaded to Facebook on Jan 18, 2011, 8:02 PM

You shift, you breathe, you keep your eyes clamped shut, hoping desperately that sleep will once again find you. You look over and see that the digital clock marks exactly 3:00 AM. Everyone else on the block is entirely passed out, and there you are in your bed, praying you will once again become one of those effortless sleepers to whom the overnight hours just fly by. You close your eyes, and in a brief fit of anger, you exhale a few hard, frustrated sighs and wait.

But the waiting quickly turns to desperation, because what you are waiting for stubbornly refuses to come. You cycle through all the different clinical techniques for driving yourself back to sleep: breathing deeply, attempting to clear your mind, altering your physical positions, drinking warm milk. After exhausting all of them, you find yourself right back where you started. The absolute worst thing about insomnia is that you are trapped inside an inescapable limbo, a territory from which you cannot exit unscathed. You tell yourself that waiting for the sun to rise will at least grant you an energetic, early start to the morning, but dawn is at least four hours away, and you really just want more sleep.

Then you examine the random thoughts darting through your head, only to be hit by the ugly truth: most of your middle-of-the-night mental traffic is composed of the exact things you do not want to think about—especially that impending assignment deadline or your uncertain future. You lie there hoping to clear the chalkboard, bring on some sleep, and get some genuine rest. Instead, the anxieties keep rushing in. If you were to step out of bed and write them down, you might successfully dump them from your brain, but the sheer physical activity would drive sleep even further out of reach. So you remain pinned to the mattress, desperately trying to brainstorm relaxing activities that won't completely wake you up.

You find yourself deeply envying all those lucky sons of guns who possess proper prescription sedatives, herbal remedies, or whale mating sounds to induce their sleep. All you have at your disposal is a damn pillow that shifts between being too soft and too hard, a blanket that suddenly feels scratchy, and sore muscles that refuse to stop reminding you exactly how much they ache. Then you wonder what it would look like to roll out of bed, drive somewhere, and find yourself surrounded by people who are just walking around, reading, chatting, and actively enjoying their lack of sleep. But then reality checks you: the only people running the streets at this hour are grave robbers, night watchmen, and anxious individuals like you, trapped in their beds getting increasingly frustrated. You wish you could call your friends and say, *"Hey, let's go grab an early breakfast together, let's take a walk and watch the sunrise,"* but none of those bastards are sharing your nightmare.

As the minutes creep by, you toss and turn, glaring back at the nightstand. The time is now 3:15 AM, and the sun can't be bothered to rise. You bargain with yourself, thinking that if you can just slide back into unconsciousness by 3:30 AM, you will still manage to escape the insomnia unscathed and in a decent temper. You promise yourself you'll pretend you got an excellent night of sleep, attributing the brief interruption to some unrelated, hopefully unrepeatable external factor. You close your eyes, breathe deeply, and wait. And wait. And wait. You want to shout; you want to let the entire world know how fucking unpleasant this limbo actually is—how incredibly stuck you are between stations, entirely powerless to do anything about it but get angry.

You finally pull yourself up to look for an activity, but your body is far too exhausted to execute anything substantial. You reach for some music, hoping the tracks will absorb some of the cognitive processing and give you something baseline to enjoy. You crank the volume, praying for soothing notes and warm melodies. Out of spite, you fling the heavy blanket onto the floor, trying to convince yourself that excess heat was the sole reason sleep wouldn't come. The music flows, and you rock along for about four songs, but then you catch yourself wondering how much longer this performance is going to take. How many more tracks until sleep arrives? Worst of all, you notice how completely identical all these songs are starting to sound to your ears. You realize you are only "enjoying" the music because there is simply nothing else to do and nowhere else on earth to be but right there in your bed. Past the four-song mark, desperation creeps back in. The earbuds begin to ache against your cartilage, your skin grows cold, and you wish you could pull the blanket back up—but you don't, out of pure stubbornness. The anger returns, fueling the cyclical thoughts that refuse to dissolve. You trace the entire coming workday, and the day after that, immediately knowing that traffic is going to suck, coffee will be an absolute survival requirement, and your parents are going to be a massive burden if sleep doesn't find you soon.

You look back at the clock: 3:33 AM. Such an odd, sinister number to be awake for. You are tired of being angry, tired of being tired, and thoroughly tired of sleep's absence. It is in that precise moment of surrender that you realize you just have to ride it out until the bitter end, pretending to enjoy the waking hours. You love it, you hate it, you love it—but you really, really, fucking hate it. You let the playlist loop again, catching minor acoustic details you’ve never noticed before, fully aware that the cycle will just repeat itself over and over until, inevitably, you drift off exactly ten minutes before your alarm goes off. Isn't life grand?

This is the exact brand of sleeplessness I have periodically endured. Two specific eras of insomnia stand out as particularly worth noting:

1. The Best of Sleepless Times: Delhi, India

   As the morning approaches, I am in a wide hotel room containing three beds, though only one is occupied. Checkout time is 9:00 AM, and the train I need to catch departs at 6:30 AM. Severe jetlag and the chaotic, electric energy of India have me completely by the throat. I am waiting for the hour to rise, race to the terminal, purchase my ticket, grab a quick sandwich, and board the carriage to see the Taj Mahal in its majestic glory. It is currently 11:00 PM; the day was fantastic and the local food was incredible, if a bit spicy. I need sleep badly. I had heard a rumor that Bob Dylan’s music can put absolutely anyone to sleep. Coincidentally, I had just acquired his past twenty-plus albums and couldn't wait to be lulled into unconsciousness by his majestic, deep baritone. Dylan sings the tracks I know, followed by dozens I don't. His voice clearly degrades as the chronology advances, but I find it soothing and intellectually charming to digest that much of his catalog in a single sitting.

   I check the clock: 1:00 AM. Only four hours until I need to wake up. *Three hours of sleep is a decent compromise,* I think, so I pray for rest. It doesn't come. I start inspecting the room, complaining internally about the intense heat and the sparse decoration, until my eyes spot the exposed electrical cables running along the wall. Only at this hour do you notice details like that. Remnants of the 1930s, these ancient power lines are legendary for spontaneously self-igniting, sparking massive fires that consume entire neighborhoods across Old Delhi. I detect a faint, low-frequency buzz and instantly convince myself that a fire is beginning its slow, creeping ascent into my room, fed by the ancient copper. I map out an elaborate evacuation plan to flee into the street with all my gear, because I've been warned that thieves target chaotic hotel fires. I lie there paralyzed; sleep is non-existent. Finally, the clock strikes 3:00 AM, Dylan strikes his millionth album, and I feel a sudden urge to choke him, figuring it might make his gravelly voice easier to bear.

   Just as my eyelids grow heavy and I feel like I might finally drift off, a massive wall of traffic erupts right outside my window. Why hadn't I realized that morning chai is served promptly at 4:00 AM to fleets of taxis, motorized rickshaws, and boisterous commercial vehicles right on this corridor? Fuck it. I decide to sleep in, forfeit the train, and change hotels tomorrow. The sun rises, and I head to the bathroom hoping to look saintly, if a bit weathered. The mirror doesn't lie; my eyes are red and puffy, my arms hang heavy, and my hair is a total disaster. Overall, I feel grand, and the day must begin.

2. The Cautious Sleepless Nights: Mexico City, Mexico

   With just a few days remaining before my departure for China, I lie inside a bed that is balanced perfectly—not too soft, not too hard, not too cold, not too warm. I tell myself I’ve been through it all, having survived environments far more rugged than China, but the reality is I’ve never set foot there, so I don't actually know. I psych myself up, framing the journey as an adventure of pure wonder, amazement, and thrill. I refuse to recognize these intense thoughts for what they actually are: deep, paralyzing fear of the unknown. After a long day processing the scale of China, I head to bed thinking how incredible a solid night of rest would be. I tuck myself in and decide to call it a night.

   I sleep briefly, jarred awake shortly after, thinking I’ve woken up with plenty of time to enjoy a final morning in Mexico City. I look at the clock: 12:00 AM. Midnight is an excellent hour for partying, it's great for drinking, and it's perfect for a night out on the town. Waking up entirely alert at midnight on a standard weekday, however, feels like certain death. There is absolutely nothing to watch on the television, nothing but static on the radio, nowhere to go, no food I want to cook, no one alive to talk to, and the coming workday is creeping forward at a glacial pace. Waking up at midnight because of an upset stomach or a sudden cough at least carries a functional medical purpose; waking up purely to get annoyed lacks any structural meaning, creating immense psychological tension between yourself and Mr. Sandman.

   My brain starts racing through all the linguistic hurdles ahead: how many local merchants in China are going to swindle my money? How many bizarre, unrecognizable dishes are going to haunt my stomach? How many vital conversations am I going to completely miss out on because of my crappy, college-level Chinese vocabulary? *How do I say this? How do I phrase that? If I use this tone, will it function as a terrible pun? Am I going to accidentally insult a stranger? What if I accidentally use my left hand instead of my right? How do I bargain for basic goods? What is the current wholesale price of coal? Is China going to rule the global economy? Am I ever going to sleep once I get to China?* I wait and wait, eventually getting so spun out that I completely forget the basic Mandarin verb for "to go to sleep." By 1:42 AM, I don't give a fuck anymore. Why am I trying to study vocabulary in the middle of the night? Why didn't I study harder when I actually had the time? I lie there staring at the dark, fully aware that a future defined by zero patience, shaky physical movements, and a severe dependence on black coffee awaits me tomorrow.

Such is the volatile, quiet life of the occasional insomniac—an existence rich with unique, bitter pleasures that are destined to be enjoyed entirely alone.