Desperately Seeking Epworth

Sitting and Reading

Slight chance of nodding off

Sleep is the enemy.

I prepare for bed like a general organizing their troops for a battle campaign. There’s a process involved that begins HOURS before I ever crawl under the covers (one sheet, one blanket—a specific requirement).

And it begins with the lineup of medications designed to hoodwink my system into believing rest is a requirement. A row of pill bottles, each with a slightly different action on my nervous system, balanced out by the melatonin supplement designed to drown my brain in thoughts of slumber. (I envy every human being who drops into the Land of Nod without so much as a drop of chemistry)

The second phase of the attack begins as soon as my inhibitions drop.

With thoughts open to suggestion, it’s time to switch off the constant cycle of “do this,” “what about that?” and “I remember” that swirls through the aether of my synapses. A comfortable easy chair beside the bed and a few trembling lumens to weaken the strength of my eyesight further.

It’s a roll of the dice as to how long the assault will take before my body consents to surrender. Five minutes? An hour? Two hours? Will I need to repeat a dose of melatonin, so I don’t feel the urge to scream and wake the snoring husband on the bed beside me?

Chaos at its best.

Watching TV

Slight chance of nodding off

I’ve never understood the notion of television in the bedroom. No electrical devices have ever made their way into that sacred chamber. (Okay, so the phone lives on its charger. I gave up on the notion of a separate alarm clock when the government decided my sleep pattern needed a new Daylight Savings Time)

My old boyfriend wanted a TV in our bedroom, and I forbid it. His constant argument for one of the flickering boxes (“white noise”) should have tipped me off that our relationship was doomed. After we separated into respective rooms, I walked past his to find him passed out with droll infomercials throwing insipid patterns across the bedspread.

The noise of strangers infiltrated the surface of my sleep and convinced me someone had intruded into the apartment.

After that breakup, I deliberately purchased furniture too narrow to support a monstrous television box. And the world countered with flat screens. So I covered my dresser with stuffed animals that HAD to reside there.

Tim doesn’t question my reasoning.

But he smiles each time my nightly insomnia causes me to doze off on the couch.

Sitting, Inactive, in a Public Place

Would never nod off

Sleep and I play a ceaseless game of hide-and-seek.

For a string of nights, I patiently stare at the backs of my eyelids. The two of us pretend a peaceful armistice. I wake and go about my day as if I have no desire to rest, recuperate, rejuvenate in the deep slumber of REM. And my body pretends not to notice the increased crippling of my joints. (Who says games of the imagination remain the preview of the young?)

Then my brain falters.

I am not, it turns out, a machine.

Sleep arrives without warning in the dull, droning moments the world fails to fill with entertainment (so often in work meetings or the early mornings before the work day begins). Despite the lack of my cooling ergonomic pillow—purchased through much research and experimentation—I drift into the limbo haze of dreams.

At least until I’m jolted awake by the sudden jerk of my chin sliding off my palm. (Or the sudden throat clear of a co-worker or supervisor)

As a Passenger in a Car For an Hour or More Without Stopping For a Break

Slight chance of nodding off

There’s a hereditary precedent to my insomnia, carried down through the matriarchal line. I’ve spent years listening to my mother repeat the same stories and wishes for her slumber, similar patterns and rituals to attempt to sneak a smattering of minutes of rest into every night.

The patriarchal line is a different branch entirely.

Sitting opposite my father on road trips has always proven a winding adventure. His military training asserts itself within the first leg of the journey, dropping his head toward his chest and sending my hand toward the wheel in a desperate gambit of panic.

My heartbeat never drops below a steady hummingbird the entire time.

I’ve heard people discuss the dangers of monotony on long drives, wondered at the incidences of accidents brought on by endless miles passed behind the wheel. I consider volunteering a single trip with my father to cure their desire to ever close their eyes in a vehicle again.

Lying Down to Rest

Would never nod off

I have vague memories of Nap Time from my childhood. I hated the notion and did everything within my power to avoid those lost hours of play.

I was an idiot.

Tim encourages me to stretch out on the couch or bed and nap whenever my evening battles have failed. A tossing, turning, fruitless endeavor designed to remind me of my squandered youth.

Such a small thing for a parent to ask: Lie down and close your eyes for an hour. I was a brat to rebel.

We implemented rest time when I worked at the summer camp and cherished what few minutes we scraped together every afternoon. But I lost that time cleaning the pool and helping organize the evening activities. Because I felt an obligation and responsibility.

Idiot. Fool.

Sitting and Talking to Someone

Would never nod off

My somnologists love to discuss my sleep. Sleep medications, sleep hygiene, hours spent asleep, sleep quality. The word appears in every part of their dialogue.

Ironic given how little it features in my life.

Sitting Quietly After a Meal Without Alcohol

Slight chance of nodding off

When your body refuses to sleep, you look for alternatives. Medication, naturally. (There isn’t a flavor I haven’t tasted) Supplements follow close upon the heels.

And then the more twisted and bizarre.

Could I drink myself into oblivion? (A tall order for someone with a familial history of alcoholism) Would a food coma produce rest? Did the supposed exercise routine before bed offer an escape? Boiling myself alive in a bathtub?

Everything a person suggested—no matter how strange—received an attempt for at least a week.

Nothing worked.

My body and brain had agreed with the chemicals in my system to retain an unfriendly armistice. Until some undisclosed arrangement I remain unaware of, sleep would stay distant.

In a Car, While Stopped in Traffic or At a Light

Would never nod off

In the middle of the night, watching Tim sleep peacefully (the ingrate), I contemplate possible explanations for my lack of respite. (The longer you stay awake, the more you justify the reason)

Certainly my obstinate behavior as a child has a place in the mixture. Every kid in kindergarten who kicked their feet on the mat and refused to close their eyes pays in kind with endless nights staring at the ceiling.

And I don’t doubt my managers hold me responsible for those boring meetings that glazed my eyes into oblivion. (Can’t trace things to the lack of sleep or the droning, nasal tones of the speaker)

Or is it nothing more than my insulting years on the overnight shift? That glaring violation of all sleep culture? I chose to forfeit my hours within the comforting bosom of the night’s embrace, stretching my consciousness through hours when the circadian pulse demanded respite.

And didn’t I pay the price? Stepping from the car with no memory of the preceding drive. How had I arrived? (Was it sheer luck there was never an accident—or another roll of the dice waiting to happen?)

Wrapping myself in my blanket years later, I shiver and wonder how long my penance might be.