sleeping is the enemy.
I can’t sleep for shit. I know this because I experience it on a near-daily basis. Everyone else knows this just by looking at me, or, if they dare, talk to me in the morning. I liken myself to Dracula on a garlic farm before 9am. I think some people think I’m a miserable bastard for show and effect. I can confirm that I simply cannot help it. I. Cannot. Sleep. For. Shit.
I’m writing this in a week where I am particularly not sleeping, so if it’s even worse than usual, soz. I can explain how I can’t sleep in a timeline, spanning from the weekend just gone to this very cold, drizzly Tuesday evening. I woke on Saturday morning at around 10ish, which is fine. Do the day as normal. Come night time, I’m playing taxi for some friends, so I don’t get in until after 1am. This isn’t out of the ordinary. Can I then get some sleep? HA no. I’m still wide awake at 5am. At some point I fall asleep and wake up at 1pm. I now know I’ve fucked it for the next few nights.
I’ve never been one to nap. It ruins my already-awful sleeping pattern, and I never fail to wake up from one feeling hungover. As I’m becoming more and more elderly, unintentional naps are becoming more frequent. The Sunday just gone, one appeared out of nowhere. Naps are supposed to be a few minutes, maybe stretch it to an hour. FIVE AND A HALF HOURS was my ‘nap’ on Sunday, that’s more than I get in a night. I woke up at 10pm knowing I’d royally sharted any hope of a decent week of sleep. This played out by not getting a bloody wink from Sunday into Monday morning, and I’ve been a ray of sunshine ever since.
I’ve got used to it now, I’ll catch up with it at some point. I’m lucky that I don’t have to look after anyone, or make any conversation whatsoever when I first wake up. Very lucky for everyone else, as I am an absolute bastard in the morning. The problem with not sleeping, is that when I eventually get to sleep, it is so deep that summoning to an alarm is more painful than rubbing hot coals into my face. Again, I’m used to this, but it’s bloody hard work sometimes.
I’m certain it hasn’t always been like this. As a child I was a needy bugger, I couldn’t bare sleep in a room on my own, much to the detriment of my parent’s sanity. Come early teens, however, and the tables flipped. To this day, the thought of sharing a room with anyone makes me want to throw said tables across a room. Sharing a bed with someone for the night? Get the fuck out, it’s mine, find your own. I’m terminally single, if that wasn’t obvious enough.
Another reason why I loathe sharing a room with anyone is because I am acutely aware of (when sleep miraculously happens) what I get up to when I am asleep. Physically and audibly. I asked a few friends who have experienced such behaviour from myself, and the overriding opinion from all of them, is that I’m absolutely fucking terrible to sleep by.
Kate and Joe are very good friends indeed. Even they can’t fabricate anything to make it sound better than it is. The itching is a problem, I have shit skin and it sounds like I’m sanding wood. I don’t know these people are friends with me. We haven’t shared sleeping space for a while, and long may that continue.
I have to make a huge disclaimer on this one, I warned Louisa time and time again that she was entering into something she would regret, and fuck me did she regret it. Dinosaurs are a common theme, however. This was coupled with having to share a bunk bed, it was fun all round.
Finally, we have Molly. We shared a room whilst working at an outdoor education centre in the good old days. Again, fair warning was given. She lasted half a night before ditching me for someone else. We’ve never been able to look at each other in the same way since.
Moral of the story is, don’t share a room with me. It’s probably best to simply avoid me at all costs wherever sleeping is involved. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I’ve ended up writing this in complete silence. Ironic, all things considered.