Those of us in a certain age group will remember the PDFA anti-drug commercial that ran non-stop in the late 80’s, featuring an egg sizzling in a frying pan with the cautionary phrase, “this is your brain on drugs.” My brain is that egg during and after a night of insomnia.

There is no apparent trigger for my bouts of insomnia, which generally last 2-3 nights in a row.  They just occur. Ron sleeps in the other room to allow himself a fighting chance for uninterrupted sleep, and to give me the space to wrestle with the devil.

To try and ward off those nights in the fun house, I do all the things the experts recommend: switch off all screens at least 30 minutes before going to bed, keep the room dark and cool, relax and breathe deeply and rhythmically.  I turn on the overhead fan for the breeze and concentrate on the soothing whir of the blades to clear my mind.  This is all for naught.  On the nights when insomnia muscles its way past the weary sentries at the gate, my brain becomes a wild ride of random thoughts.  I exhaust myself trying to relax; punching the pillow to make the perfect nest for my head, flipping my body from side to side, tossing around the bed like a dinghy on a rough sea.  When I am finally in a comfortable position, my mind cracks open like an egg, expelling random, disconnected thoughts.

Lying on my side, staring at the wall, I have a sudden memory of hardboiled eggs adorned with smiley faces drawn on with black marker. My best friend’s mother used to do this and pack them in her lunch.  Was it the third grade? Where is my friend now?  We were so close. I make my first mental note of the night to try and find her on the internet.

I untangle the bedsheets and blankets wrapped around my legs and kick off the covers. I stare into the darkness; my own breathing annoys me in the quiet room.  Take my breath away. Oh no.

Watching every motion in my foolish lover’s game
On this endless ocean, finally lovers know no shame
Turning and returning to some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say

Take my breath away

And now we have this evening’s soundtrack. It plays over and over and over in my head. My dog scratches and chews.  I nudge her with my foot and adjust my position.

I’m hungry.  I should make a good breakfast tomorrow morning.  I know I have a really good breakfast casserole recipe.  Which cookbook is it in?  Do I have tater tots in the freezer?  Does the casserole even have tater tots in it? I make my second mental note of the night to check for tater tots.

Maybe I’ll walk the dogs at the beach after breakfast tomorrow instead of taking our usual route around the neighborhood. The thought is delightful and I smile, until I think about how many dogs we encounter when we take that path, and I’m suddenly struck with fear. What if a big dog gets loose and comes after my little dogs?  Do I throw myself on them, covering them with my body, possibly sacrificing my scalp or a foot?  I see the whole scene unfolding: me on the ground over my dogs, screaming while a snarling, slathering wolf-dog tears at me to get to my dogs. There in the dark, in the quiet, it is as if its happening. My heart pounds with adrenaline and I sit up. What the Hell? Breathe. I make my third mental note of the night to check Amazon for big sticks. This calms me down.

I check the clock for the umpteenth time.  It mocks me with its red glowing numbers: 1:15am. I went to bed at 10:30; almost three hours of this nonsense. If I go to sleep now, I can still get 5 hours sleep before my alarm goes off at 6:30. I flop to my back, blankets up to my chest, arms at my sides.  Like a hospital patient.

Do I smell spaghetti?  Why do I smell spaghetti?  Is my orthodontist appointment this Tuesday, or next Tuesday?  I hate going to the orthodontist. 

My pajamas are riding up, my Invisaligns are too tight, and my back itches. Frustrated, I find my phone in the tangle of my bedding and turn on a podcast, hoping the droning voice of the host will lull me to sleep.  The story opens with eerie music, foretelling the mystery to come. I’m ready.

Wait, what’s that noise outside?  Did I close the slider?  I sit up and cock my ear toward the window.  Ugh, just cats.  So many cats in this neighborhood.  I wonder what happened to the kitten I took to the shelter two years ago when I found it weak and army crawling on my patio.  I picture it sleek and healthy, tucked in happily with a loving family.  All of this leads me to think about shelters in general and puppy mills and all the animals in the world who are mistreated. That horrible infomercial with the cats and dogs in cages, grimy and starving, runs through my head along with the background song, “In the Arms of the Angels.” I make myself cry a little thinking about it. I’m cold. I pull up on my blankets, fighting the weight of my dog, when he suddenly hops to another part of the bed. Inertia sends my right hand flying into my face and my thumbnail gouges my eyebrow. DAMN IT.

I’m mad now. And so tired. Why can’t I sleep?  I close my eyes tight and blow air out through my closed lips. Exasperated.

The podcast plays on, even as my mind wanders.  “By now Lizzie Tanner had made a reputation for herself in the music and art world,” the narrator says.  “Who was to know in a few short days her name would be in an obituary.”  I open my eyes.  Wait.  Who is Lizzie Tanner?  Crap.  I start the podcast from the beginning. I turn my pillow over to the cool side, adjust my neck and head, and close my eyes again.  Okay, Lizzie, what’s your story?

Three minutes in, I see giant, colored letters floating behind my closed eyes:  a yellow A, a blue B, a shimmering pink C.  They go from floating to darting to racing toward me.  My eyes fly open and take in the dark room, the clock aglow at 2:30 am.   I can still get 4 hours’ sleep if I fall asleep now.  I’m sweating and throw off my blanket.  I stare at the ceiling, listening to the fan blades cut the air.

For some reason, I think about potato salad.  I wonder how it would turn out if I put tater tots in potato salad. Do I have tater tots?  Wait, I’ve already been down this road.  I turn over on my left side, pull the covers up to my chin and draw my legs up.  My hip hurts.  I flip to my right side.  My shoulder hurts.  I really need to start stretching more.  Where is my yoga mat?  Garage?  In my car?  I make my fourth mental note of the night to locate my yoga mat.

I put a pillow over my face and scream, hoping this will exorcise the demons keeping me from sleep.  It just makes my throat hurt and my head ache.  I gulp water from a bottle on my nightstand and collapse back into my pillows.  The whole world is asleep except me. It is an intensely lonely feeling.  I run both hands through my hair and vigorously scratch my scalp.  I make popping noises with my mouth.  I don’t know why.  I organize my closet in my head.  I think about a book I just finished and how I would cast the movie.  I create a list of names to pull from if I get another dog.  I look at the clock.  It’s blinking 3:00 am.  The witching hour.  I glance wide-eyed around the dark room, but there are no shadow people lingering in the corners.  I tell Alexa to turn off my alarm and reset it for 7:30 am. 

Buying back the hour relaxes me a bit.  I sigh. I breathe. My eyes are really heavy. My body feels as if it’s floating.  My heart beat slows. I am finally beginning to lose consciousness when my eyes snap open in a panic.

Did I water my herbs today?