The Other Side of Midnight

I can sleep anywhere. I hitched to Paris for charity when I was at university years ago and slept on a bench somewhere in the Charles de Gaulle airport terminal instead of forking out money for a hostel. On the way back from the same trip, four of us slept under a road sign on the slip road of the M25 motorway, cold and bored after hours of unsuccessful thumbing – moved on only when the police kindly gave us a lift to a service station where we eventually hooked up with a bemused lorry driver who took us where we needed to be. I have slept with my head next to speakers, on friends floors, cold wet tents, cramped flights, boats, commuter trains, standing up on the tube, a stable floor, lumpy sofas, hammocks, two to a single camp bed, three to a child’s bunk bed with one son’s toe up my nostril and the other’s finger in my ear; through thunderstorms, tropical typhoons, screeching sirens and fire alarms. So why, oh why, oh why, oh why can’t I fall back to sleep at 3.06am in my comfortable, cosy, sanctuary of my own bedroom?

I don’t have insomnia as such, I can get to sleep most evenings without much effort, normally after reading the same sentence on the same page of the same book I had tried to read the night before. It’s the sudden jolt out of a deep sleep at WhatTheFuck-O’clock that I don’t understand. There is no set pattern, no rhyme or reason and it doesn’t happen every night. But when it does, that is when the little demon who has been rehearsing all week to make your night hell kicks in. It starts off with nagging doubt, progresses through deep regret and ends at around 6.30 am just before the alarm with impending doom. Everything I have ever done, everything I have ever said is played to me over and over again.

I used to blame my hormones, being a woman of a certain age, I would wake in the night soaked to the skin as the internal fire of a night sweat ravaged my body. But hormones aside, waking from the deepest sleep with such a jolt is unnerving. I lie there for a minute or two, not sure if I am still in the middle of a chaotic dream, heart pumping, mind racing, seeking, searching, looking for clues, eventually making out eerie shapes of my dark bedroom. Then I come to properly, remember I am in my bed, turn over and try to force sleep back under my eyelids and tell myself, quietly, that I am going to go back to sleep now. However, no matter how much I tiptoe around it - that is normally the moment my demon-racehorse -of-an-anxiety-brain decides to wake up – it stretches, yawns, kicks out and sits bolt upright in my head. And off we go again, unhelpful thoughts galloping around my head and I know I am in for a rocky night.

Why do thoughts at 3.06am consume you so much? I have been tormented with trivia – I can spend an hour fixated on whether or not it is the green recycling bin or the black general waste bin on this week’s collection, three days before it is due. I have turned over sums in my head, working out how many more years I have on a mortgage, a loan, a credit card, each trigger setting off panic and thoughts, like a game of arcade pin-ball, the ball ricocheting into parts of my mind, opening door after door. Door 1 – that’s guilt, shame, embarrassment - I cringe inwardly as I remember silly pranks as teenagers, mean things I said, people I have been rude to, times I got drunk, times I let my guard down. Then comes door 2 opening up all the fear, dread and paranoia - my mind thinks of all the illness I may have – my heart is either too still or beating too hard. I think I may actually die as the panic sets in. My arms tingle, more than likely from the position I am lying in, but I convince myself I have a nerve disorder starting. I lie there static and as still as can be – but – hush now I am sure that I can hear something and even though I don’t believe that ghosts and ghouls exist, there is a strange eerie scratching noise I can’t quite explain and a rustle in the attic. Burglar? Pigeons? Mice? Frozen with fear, a chain reaction thought process now takes me to an article I read somewhere where mice had chewed all through cables and had caused an electrical fire. Twenty-five minutes of worrying, where I am sure I can smell smoke, while I work out in my mind which window would make the best escape route, then .. Boom ! Door number 3 opens – sadness, regret and melancholy – friends and relatives loved and lost, goals never achieved, dreams not yet fulfilled. Hot tears make my pillow damp adding to the discomfort of the night.

I lie there contemplating. Do I need the bathroom? I think I am thirsty. Chest tight, anxiety rising, I start to panic I may have an actual panic attack – a serious fear for anxiety sufferers. I don’t want to be on my own - yet, I don’t think I can move as I don’t want to wake anybody up. What is it they say – you should just get up and walk around, turn the bedside lamp on, read a book, grab a glass of milk rather than lie there with the whole world pressing down on your shoulders? I could catch up on social media to make me feel less alone but I don’t feel I can check WhatsApp, Facebook or Messenger – the ‘time last seen’ status an instant give away to the restless mind, ready for a barrage of judgment from others wondering why I am awake in the lonely early hours (interestingly though, the few times I have dared investigate, the amount of people with an ‘active now’ status next to their name at 3am is quite revealing, as if going by my own circle of friends, we must be a nation of insomniacs!).

Grey fingers of light finally penetrate the room. Dawn is breaking. I begin to worry now about not getting enough hours of sleep in, how my health will suffer. My anxiety worsens when I am tired, my heart beats faster when I am exhausted and my muscles ache. I am desperate for the bosom of sleep. Eyes burning, stinging with frustration. My husband’s peaceful snoring starts to annoy me – he has had his fair share of sleepless nights, so I don’t begrudge him, but he is too loud and too near. It’s too hot and the sheet underneath me is crumpled which adds to my agitation. The dog sighs, farts, turns over on her blanket next to our bed and I envy her contented slumber. And the damn birds – I spent decent money once for both of us to go to a dawn chorus breakfast, but I begin to despise every chirpy bastarding blackbird blaring out full throttle outside my window. And living on a main road in rural village, it is around this time that the grain lorries and early rising farm vehicles rumble past our house. The world is waking up and I feel just … so …. shattered…

Night thoughts are rarely nice thoughts. Where are all the positive emotions such as love, joy, gratitude, excitement, peace, curiosity and contentment when I need them? Why don’t they come out and comfort me the other side of midnight instead of cowering behind closed doors? The mind is a wonderous thing but can be your own worst enemy. The alarm normally jolts me back into reality around 7am, I may have nodded off for a while, but I am groggy with confusion. Eyes glued together, I finally make out the shapes of the day. I get up, stretch and stumble into the shower. And as I stand under the hot flow trying to kick start my day, I feel the nasty night-demon-racehorse inside me finally settle down to sleep, satisfied with its evenings work, getting its rest before the next onslaught, whenever that will be.