No Sleep Till…60?

Sometimes I lose sleep. Like my keys, my headphones, and the favorite sweater I wore recently but can’t find in the logical places, I just can’t find it. I lie in bed all night waiting for it to appear and my brain to disappear. Counting down, deep breathing, body scanning, pondering when my body and mind will agree to come together to find a state of unconscious rest. All hope is not lost because, as I like to say to my kids when they are searching for something with escalating frustration, “Well, it didn’t walk away.” I am faithful these things, and sleep, will show up again. They usually do.

A few years ago, when I was in the throes of menopause, my insomnia felt different. I would jump from one precise worry to the next as if my brain were that air-blowing lottery machine that holds all of those numbered ping pong balls bouncing around waiting to be picked for the winning combination. It was just chance which worry would pop up next, no organization or association between the thoughts.

My therapist once asked me to describe what was inside my head keeping me up at night. My answer was something like this:

“Damn I forgot to buy butter when I was on that efficient (rushed) trip to the grocery store after work deciding what to cook for dinner… I’m so pissed off at that arrogant more senior male colleague who presented a new version of what I came up with at the last team meeting without even acknowledging my work… what a jerk… did I forget to sign up for parent teacher conferences? I really want a new light fixture in the dining room… my high schooler seems quieter and more overwhelmed than usual… what does he need from me I wonder? More reminders; less involvement? What about me, what do I need? Is my marriage still working for me? Would a new job solve this unrest?”

It keeps going. Some things cycle back around. The more significant ones had a way of doing that.

The technical term for these uncontrollable worries and the emotions they were attached to, as stated on my therapy bills, is “generalized anxiety disorder.” Looking back, I might label it “hormone-associated mild insanity syndrome, coupled with episodes of insomnia and occasional spikes of hysteria.” I wonder if my insurance would have covered that.

“You’re working,” my therapist said. “Give yourself a break and try to see that you’re working things out.” Well, it wasn’t a bad suggestion of reframing, but at the time work was the last thing I needed more of! It was sleep I searched for; a search that didn’t require a resume but, I was learning, did require a set of skills I seemed to no longer to possess. I took the suggestion and reminded myself to add a new numbered ball to the lottery ping pong ball container, one that represented self-love and kindness.

A few years later, my hot flashes are now warm waves, and—combined with many other changes including the pandemic putting at least some of my worries in perspective—I now feel that my “generalized anxiety disorder” has become less of a disorder and more like “generally happy person syndrome with cycles of good and bad days, coupled with sporadic bouts of insomnia.” That’s progress!

Lately, the insomnia it is no longer characterized by anxious thoughts jumping from one to the next. I have arrived at a calmer state of sleeplessness; a somewhat meditative place that can last all night but never become solid sleep. I am well aware that there are many reasons for an unsettled night; it’s never one thing, as much as we may search for one solution. I have become more accepting of the rhythm of my worry cycles, and the anxieties have eased. I still don’t give up trying to find sleep. I think to myself, “Maybe I should get out of bed, do another Headspace meditation, read my book, write my blog…” but I can’t muster the energy, so I do another countdown. It’s like waiting for a train that never arrives, but you’re still looking forward to where it might take you.

Usually it’s the next morning that’s the harder part. Here’s what was inside my head on a particular morning, December 31, 2020 to be exact, after a night of no sleep:

“I can do this. I’ll get through this day. It’s just sleep; it will come back eventually.”

I start unloading the dishwasher, one of my favorite quiet morning routines. Recently I heard a great quote from Nora Ephron: “If you’re not happy washing dishes, you’re not happy.” I think I’m happier putting them back in their place than washing them, but I get it! I embrace my chore carefully, returning things to their place without making too much noise and potentially waking the family.

But then this: “Wait, why do I feel like crying? Why am I crying? Feeling tired makes sense, but overcome with uncontrollable tears? How long do these menopause hormones last??” I wasn’t sure then, but now it’s clearer that the anticipation of saying good-bye to a hard year for me personally, and harder for so many more, was the reason I found no R.E.M. on the night of December 30th. My husband always points out how I search for reasons and explanations. Maybe they make me feel better!

 Then the inner critic wakes up as I grab a tissue:

“Maybe I’m not strong enough, I don’t have the grit, perseverance, strength to be OK with not sleeping. Are highly successful and productive people who sleep four hours a night really OK? I’m not good company for my husband. It’s New Year’s Eve and I don’t want to do anything. I definitely won’t last until midnight. Will he be disappointed?” He wasn’t. In fact, he played his role well and gave me the extra love and tenderness I needed that day.

Deep breath. “I’ll be Ok. I’ll make it through the day and sleep tonight, usually that is the case. One night on, one night off.”

Indeed, that was the case, and going to bed at 10:30 on New Year’s Eve felt good. I woke up feeling like the better me again.

The New Year did not solve all my sleep troubles, but I did recently have a straight week of solid sleep and it felt amazing. Although I never read the news at bedtime, maybe I can thank Joe and Kamala for contributing to newfound nighttime peace. Yet I have laid awake on a few of these cold January nights still hoping I’ll find sleep at the end of the next body scan. I may never stop searching for reasons why it comes and goes or analyzing my behavior to see if I can find a magic formula. One drink, maybe two, best if it’s tequila. This month it’s more often no alcohol at all. Sometimes I meditate before bed, sometimes a really deep morning meditation provides lasting effect until bedtime. Sometimes I take melatonin, sometimes I don’t. Going to bed at the same time every night – that definitely helps! Recently I spontaneously bought an herbal sleep tincture that claims to ease sleep with valerian root and skullcap. I have no idea what those are, but I gave into the temptation and spent the $20 to see if this might be the solution I’ve been waiting for. It tastes god awful, like by some unexplained mix-up you drank your grandmother’s hairspray, the kind that still contained alcohol and tried to cover the chemical smell with a fake rose scent. I’ll let that one go!

I don’t have all the answers to my sleep cycles but comparing 53 to 50, I think I’ll be more consistently rested by the time 60 is approaching (a girl can dream). And I feel good embracing that predicted trajectory. I just wonder how many other things I will lose before then. I’ll find sleep when it comes, and I hope my rings will remain on my fingers. *

*If you missed my story of losing things with more material significance, you can find it here: The Weight of the Rings.