What happens when it's dark? I know! I know!

I did not go to work yesterday. I had a good reason, despite the fact that some people would point at me and yell “SLOTH!” No…it’s because I haven’t fallen asleep until 6am for the past three nights. Unfortunately, it's not due to some drug-fueled bender. It’s just insomnia…though I have felt like I’ve been having a bad acid flashback for the past few days, walking around as though underwater, my movements slow and peoples words floating towards me through a thick, muddy morass.

So yesterday, instead of joining the teeming masses of people who were coming off of holiday break, I napped, fitfully, until 12:30pm. I then crawled, gingerly, out of bed, hair in almost cartoon like disarray and crept downstairs, joined by Kylie who was about to issue a fatwa upon my head for serving her breakfast so late. “Tired all of the time and a negligent parent,” she’ll have scrawled on my tombstone. "Also, not enough walks."

I envy people who can sleep. I’ve never had the talent, though I practice each night, turning my light out, looking forward to those things people talk about…what are they? Dreams? Instead, I’m well acquainted with what my room looks like in the dark, how the shadows shift as the thin light of dawn starts to filter in. I can tell you how the traffic patterns change between 2-6am and used to have a detailed schedule mapped out of my neighbors’ sexual proclivities, heard through the thin walls of various San Francisco apartments.

In college, I became a champion napper. I discovered a whole population of people who COULD sleep but who opted to stay up until 4am because there were more fun things to do than slumber. The gaps between classes offered them enough time to nap and make it through the day without consequence. This was genius and a tactic I immediately adopted. People have always marveled at my ability to fall asleep anywhere. It’s true: I nap to survive. I remember a friend shaking me awake in the middle of a nightclub in London screaming over the bass, “You’ve been sleeping for the past twenty minutes!” I was remarkably refreshed and spent the rest of the night dancing.

I have tried everything over the counter without success. So when Ambien came along, I was dubious at best. Eight full hours of sleep? Impossible. But the first time I took it, I couldn’t believe the world I woke up to. I had slept. Blissfully. Without interruption. Was the sky always that blue? Were babies that cute? BUSH was president? I went on a sleep bender for months, looking forward to bedtime like a heroin addict would to the needle. But I don’t like to depend on anything, even eschewing caffeine, and so tapered nervously off wondering, since I had given my body a taste of the well-rested life, if it would take the hint and get with the program.

It did, for months. I would fall onto my pillow and within moments be asleep. I almost forgot how I spent the first 30 years of my life. I had crossed over to the other side.

Then slowly, the old patterns slipped back and the past year has been a mixed bag. So I admitted defeat and regretfully called my doctor yesterday, renewing my prescription. I’d like to think that I have more control over my body, that I could meditate or talk my mind into a state of relaxation that would make pills dispensable. Or if the world were nocturnal, running on my schedule, for instance. That would be nice.

Instead, I need help, and that’s ok. At some point, you have to come to terms with what you've been given. And for me, well, my circadian rhythms are extraordinarily out of tune. I remember being five years old and lying awake, listening to my sister breathe in her bed, knowing that with each passing moment it would be harder to stay awake during school the next day. I suppose one gift out of all of this is that I’ve never been afraid of the dark. I know it better than I do the day.