sleep

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Sleepless on the Orient Express

Today’s question is, “What do you do to improve your sleep?” and frankly, I find the question offensive. But if you must know, my current sleep strategy consists of being a night owl until about 3:00 AM, getting a light dusting of unconsciousness, and then waking up for work feeling like I was hit by a bus. If I’m lucky, those three hours of rest are accompanied by vivid, highly stressful anxiety dreams where I’m trying to pass a math test I didn’t study for while being chased by an irate landlord. It’s a flawless system.

My only real attempt at “improvement” involves British murder mysteries. Every night, I turn on a Hercule Poirot audiobook. Not because I care who killed the much-hated-richer-than-god patriarch but because they’re narrated by Hugh Fraser—the actor who played Captain Hastings in the TV show—and he has the most beautiful, soothing voice in human history. It’s like being gently tucked into bed by a 1930s gentleman. All prim and proper and coattails. It’s a lovely soundtrack for my insomnia.

Does it help? Not really. But if insomnia insists on keeping me company, it might as well have a British accent.

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Why Am I Like This (Sleep Edition)

Today’s writing prompt is all about sleep schedules. So, what time do I go to bed and wake up, you ask?

Ah. Ha. Ha. Adorable question. Love the optimism. Bless your heart.

Technically, I “go to bed” around 3 a.m. That is, if you define “go to bed” as lying horizontal in a state of existential dread while refreshing the same three apps and listening to an audiobook. It’s not that I’m not tired. I am. It’s just that my brain refuses to get on board with the whole bedtime idea.

I know it’s a neurodivergent thing – to truly love sleep and still avoid it like the plague. Speaking of which, did you know the plague is still a thing? Yep, apparently it never left. Which, honestly, relatable. I should probably get that looked at. The sleep thing, not the plague thing. I don’t have the plague. Probably. But, you know… medical expenses in the good ol’ U.S. of A. being what they are, that won’t be happening anytime soon. Even if it was the plague.

Hey, it’s just me and my unhealthy sleep schedule against the world.

I don’t go to bed because I want to. I go because my conscience is like, “Hey, it’s late, you should sleep,” and I’m like, “Fine, but I’m not gonna like it.”

I mean, it’s not like I’m staying up curing cancer or writing the next great American novel. I’m just rotting on the couch, scrolling TikTok and watching reruns of The Nanny. (Fran Drescher’s laugh is my serotonin, what can I say?) So what the hell, right?

Then, like a true high-functioning insomniac, I get up early every weekday for work. Without fail. Like clockwork. A very resentful, under-caffeinated, held-together-by-dry-shampoo clock.

And I wonder – genuinely wonder – why I’m tired all the time. A mystery only Scooby-Doo could solve.

It’s not that I don’t like sleep. Oh no. Like I said, I love sleep. I could sleep all day. And have. My weekend wakeup time is basically a roulette wheel. Could be 10 a.m., could be 2 p.m., could be “Why is it dark again?”

But nighttime? My brain’s like: “Oh, you’re tired? LOL, no you’re not. Let’s think about that time you said ‘you too’ to that barista in 2007 instead.” It’s probably anxiety. Or a broken circadian rhythm. Or, you know, anxiety.

Now, naps? Naps are my kink. Naps are where I shine. I’ll nap instead of taking a lunch break. I’ll nap after work. I’ll nap during work if my camera’s off and the meeting is boring. (Kidding. Sort of.)

I don’t know why my brain refuses to let me sleep at night but is totally cool with passing out face-first on the couch at 6:17 p.m. Maybe it’s rebellious. Maybe it’s just an asshole.

Anyway. That’s my sleep schedule. It’s chaos with a side of exhaustion. If anyone has tips – besides “go to bed earlier” (how dare you) – I’m all ears. Until then, I’ll be here, not sleeping when I should be and napping when I shouldn’t.

Sweet dreams. Or not.

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