Insomniarama

It’s quite unfortunate that this country, this city, is full of workaholics. Seriously. I mean, we got cannoli and paella from those most languorous nations of Italy and Spain – why oh WHY didn’t their soft spots for siestas melt into this pot that is NYC as well?

We live in The City That Never Sleeps. What an excellent connotation. Ha. Perhaps that’s why, since moving here, I’ve joined the ranks of insomniac denizens.

And I haaaaaaaaaate it.

Sleeping is, apparently, very hard work. It’s takes a knack, a talent – and I seem to have lost all capacity for being “good” at it.

You name it, I’ve tried it – Simply Sleep, Tylenol PM, Melatonin, Ambien. I’ve guzzled NyQuil, and popped Benadryl. I’ve misted my pillows and my face with “Tranquil” spray. Rubbed my temples with “Relax”.

I’ve tried all the teabags. I’ve lit candles and listened to instrumental music. I have a sleep mask. I “changed my routine” so I no longer read in bed. I don’t drink caffeine past 11am. I’ve even tried Trazodone.
And yet…slumber evades me.
I don’t know WHAT my problemo is. It’s kind of a joke, actually. There I lie in my cozy, ridiculously comfortable bed. And my mind hums not with dreams, but with thoughts of how funny it is that I can’t fall asleep.

I do have noble intentions. I don’t automatically resort to the pill – I try to resist the temptation of immediately popping one before I slip between the sheets. Especially since I read on the Melatones (as my co Jeffery and I so fondly call it) label that you should only take for the tabs for two months, with a week off. I was up to EIGHT per night – this has since dwindled down to one or two. But I’ve been taking them for two YEARS, not months!!

Shit yo!

No wonder why my brain is turning to mush. Why I can never think of what exactly is is that I want to say. That I am drowsy every single day, dizzy and forgetful, clumsy and off-balance. That I see things floating around in my vision that aren’t really there.

Umm…can we say s-c-a-r-y?

I recently read “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel García Márquez (a positively gorgeous book, I HIGHLY recommend). At one point, the town of Macondo (in which the novel takes place), is plagued by insomnia. The inhabitants, delirious and forgetful with lack of sleep, begin to label everything.

However, even with pieces of paper saying what everything is, the residents start to dread the day when the labels will have no meaning because they themselves will have forgotten how to read!

I sympathize with those lovely fictional residents of Macondo. Only I live in the very real city of New York.

And there aren’t any gypsies coming along to cure us NYCers of that most loathsome malady, insomnia.

Boo hoo.