I can’t tell if tonight’s insomnia is just another episode in a three week-long saga of broken nights and lost days or whether it is special in its own right because I’m anxious about a visit to the doctor’s surgery tomorrow morning. And it doesn’t really matter to my sleeplessness which category of insomnia it belongs to because the basic function of the insomnia remains the same – I can’t get to sleep.
I’ve suffered from problems with sleep since I was young when inexpressible, incomprehensible anxieties twisted my mind into shapes of wide awake and worry. All the years between then and now have brought effusive means of expression and a fair amount of comprehension yet anxiety doesn’t actually care whether you can describe it in eloquent terms: it’s primal, it’s murky, it’s emotive and all the thesauruses in all the world can’t get to the roots and dissolve the fucking stuff.
Nor can fighting the fact of anxiety-driven insomnia induce sudden, satisfying sleep so I accept it as best I can and find things to occupy my mind which are not entirely shaped by worry. Except they are, because I wouldn’t need to be occupying my mind at fuck o’clock in the morning if I were not hoping to prevent it running off into anxiety overload. I’d be asleep. Sleep may not be immune to anxiety but at least it is a form of anxiety with the decency to throw some Freudian jokes and general wish fulfilment into the mix.
The doctor thing? Blood tests and sputum samples to see if I’m just responding slowly to recent antibiotics or if something unusual (for my already far from usual body) is going on inside. And now back to some or other distraction which will hopefully keep me distracted at least until the seagulls start to yell like drunken wankers amazed they’ve reached another morning.