I am not tired, but I am not not tired either. I am capable of sitting here with my hands folded, thinking quiet thoughts, and I don’t feel tired. But if even the thought of moving around and making dinner or doing the dishes occcurs to me I am suddenly and entirely exhausted. I consider this progress.
Yesterday I came home and practically did a face plant in my pad thai, then woke up again at midnight and couldn’t fall back asleep until 3 am. I was back up again at 7, but if you put the two sleeping episodes together I had more than my eight hours, so I was just superduper today, with the help of quarts and quarts of coffee.
Now I am walking a fine line between succumbing to the urge to go right to bed, knowing I’ll be up again in a few hours, and forcing myself to stay awake until a proper bedtime so that I have a chance at someday, somehow establishing a sane sleeping pattern.
My dreams are all filled with strange imagery now, with the sights and sounds of a new workplace. Computers and faxes walk in my sleep now. I used to have the most amazing workmares when I cooked for a living — I’d get chased by sliced cucumbers and tomatoes around the prep table, or have an unending stream of tenderloins sent back because they were overcooked and had to be thrown out.
Now my dreams are inchoate; I can make no sense of them. My cats think I am marvelous though, I now sink like a stone into sleep and toss and turn not a bit. They could curl up on my face and smother me in my sleep and I would not notice.
I’m hungry. Will someone please feed me? Anyone?
Oh well. Maybe I’ll just zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.