Insomnia

I knew I had a problem falling asleep at night. But I didn't realize how much of a problem it was until just a few years ago when I read an article on "sleep hygiene" that said something to the effect of, "if you still aren't asleep after 20 minutes..."

And I thought... 20 minutes? Do real people fall asleep that fast?

Because ever since I can recall, it took me a whole lot longer than 20 minutes to fall asleep. A whole lot longer. I can remember being sent to bed at the same bedtime year-around, regardless of when the sun actually set, lying in bed on a summer's evening in a room that was too light even with the curtains drawn, listening to the TV playing off in the living room where everyone else was watching it, and feeling that a world in which the rest of the family watched TV while I had to be in bed by 7:30 (up until I was in second grade, when my bedtime was moved all the way to 8:00) was truly unfair.

Even in the winter, even when it was dark at bedtime, I would still lie in bed hearing the sounds of the rest of the house, until my brothers were sent to bed, then finally the TV was turned off, and my parents went to bed, and silence settled in the house.

In the meantime my eyes were wide open and my brain was going whirl whirl whirl...

I had my stuffed animals for company. All of them. ALL of them. I didn't want any of them to feel left out or rejected. I had a lot of deep-seated anxiety around rejection, so every soft toy I had was piled up in my crib. It's a wonder there was any room left for me.

There are, of course, kids with sleep problems who bounce back out of bed, play with their toys, lead their parents on a merry chase around the house, and so on. I never did. There was a good deal of strictness in our house, so I suppose I didn't dare.

I had something going for me, though. I had my imagination. The time between getting tucked in and the time I finally did fall asleep was spent spinning stories in my head.

The earliest ones were riffs on the television shows I watched. Mostly they involved Batman, the campy 60s TV version. My stories included a character of my own, a projection of myself into the Batman trope, that I named Flying Boy.

Flying Boy had whatever awesome super power I needed for him to have for whatever tale I created. Flying like Superman was obviously one of them. There might also be characters from other shows. The Monkees might make an appearance. As time went on, various superhero cartoons added to the stories, and they grew longer, more complex, and a whole lot more dramatic.

Falling asleep initially was problematic enough, even with the inner stories going on.

Waking in the middle of the night, though, starting when I was about four... that was a far bigger problem.

I can recall being about three and I couldn't find anyone in the house. For some reason I was inside and everyone else was outside doing yard work. I ran from room to room, looking for them, and exploded into an all out panic attack, afraid to my bones that somehow it was their time to die and I was all alone. Mom heard me crying and came in to see what in the world could be the matter, and chided me about crying for "nothing."

By four I guess I figured out that people didn't just die and vanish, but waking alone at night was still fraught with anxiety.

Lying there, my mind awhirl with wordless thoughts, I needed to know. There were people in the house, right? Everything was okay?

I'd try making up stories, but even my active imagination was no match for the smothering darkness, as cold anxiety seeped in like dank stormwater flooding a leaky basement.

I wanted to call for Mom, but the night was huge and scary, and all that came out at first was a tiny whisper.

Once I squeaked out something audible, I worked up the nerve to add a little volume.

I wasn't even thinking about what I wanted, only concentrating on getting the words out. Eventually, after many tries and much ratcheting up of courage, I cranked the volume up enough to be heard down the hall.

Another call or two, and I heard my parents' bedroom door open. In the backlit glow of the bathroom light streaming in from the hallway,  Mom eventually appeared, her hair up in pink sponge curlers (this was the 60s -- I think all women went to bed wearing pink sponge curlers), looking bleary-eyed. It was, the middle of the night, after all.

At that point -- what could I say? I was four years old. I didn't have the vocabulary or the self-awareness to say, "Mother, I am suffering from free-floating anxiety and existential dread, and I require a few moments of comforting, if you would be so kind. Really, observing that you still exist is a great help."

What came out instead was:

Mom would sigh, give me a brief hug, and tell me to go to sleep. Off she'd shuffle back to her room.

I'd lie back down, pull the blankets over my head, press myself up against my mountain of stuffed animals, and eventually I'd go back to sleep.

This went on for a while. Long enough that it became a problem. Not every night, I think, but often enough that Mom got tired of it. Her youngest child was four now, long past the time when children were supposed to be sleeping through the night. Dad had to be awake early to go to work, and of course she had to be up at the same time to get breakfast, feed us kids, get my brothers off to school, and tackle the day's chores. Having to get up in the night to comfort a wide-awake child just wasn't working for her.

That was when she decided to Do Something About It.

The next time I cried out in the night, she didn't respond.

I went through the whole routine, whispering, then speaking aloud, and finally calling out. Many times. And still no one came.

That may have been the last time I called for Mom in the middle of the night.

As far as my mother was concerned, the problem was solved. Stop rewarding the undesired behavior, and the undesired behavior goes away. Perfectly logical.

Her problem was solved. She got to sleep the night through.

My problem, however... not so much.

I still woke at night, many nights, then and for years and years after that. I still lay awake, swamped with anxiety, my active brain filling in the darkness with whatever monsters it thought must be there, because when the subconscious part of the brain starts cranking out the anxiety chemicals, the logical part says, "There must be something out there to be afraid of," and fills in the blanks.

So I lay awake, night after night, wrapped in my blankets and wishing morning would come.

Lesson learned: After bedtime, when darkness fell... I was entirely on my own.

At four, left to cope with paralyzing anxiety, in the dark, all alone.