I might be dreaming, but it seems like every time I've delved into the papers over the last week or so, there seems to be another story about sleep or the lack of it. If it wasn't Desmond Swayne getting caught out enjoying 40 winks in the House of Commons mid-debate, it was Donald Trump's doctor declaring that the president exists on a meagre four hours of shut eye each night.
My night-time patterns have always been highly malleable. Depending on where I was living, what the season was, how good the current book I was engrossed in was, every and any reason could affect whether I'd get enough snoozing done before the alarm would rouse me in the morning. I'd pass a couple of months on reduced hours and then, for no reason whatsoever, I'd have a few weeks of blissful rest each night, a full eight hours of slumber or as close as any parent of young children gets to that.
But those lovely, little oases of real deep sleep have themselves become a bit of a dream when insomnia took hold of my night times about two years ago. At that stage I was going through the emotional equivalent of a perfect storm. In the wake of having lost my wonderful daddy and giving birth to my third baby, all in the space of several weeks, it's not surprising that my sleep went a bit up the left.
What was more surprising to me was that nothing I tried settled it back down to normal and my goodness, I tried the lot. Face masks, lavender oil, black-out blinds and attempts at deep breathing which only led me to shallow thoughts about whether I'd remembered to make the kids' lunches for the morning or if I'd ever get my head round the intricacies of personal finance. The answer to the first was often no and, to the second, never.
I discovered many other sleep-deprived souls like myself when I meandered onto social media.
There are hundreds of bleary-eyed users online at all hours, sharing tips on how to get a few more than 40 winks. Thanks to their suggestions whole grains, wild lettuce and spinach became a staple of my diet. My favourite fizzy caffeinated drinks went to the wall, replaced by hot milk and chamomile tea. All healthy changes but they didn't earn me one extra second of sleep. The more I attempted to find a miracle cure, the more uptight I became and the less actual shut-eye I got.
So, about six months ago, I decided if I couldn't fix it, I would embrace it. Those extra hours morphed from time that ticked by slowly into a chance for me to watch something other than CBeebies on the TV, read a book or catch up on a little work. I discovered baking to be a very calming activity when your eyes won't shut for love nor money, though the dodgy results of my early morning cooking aren't quite so soothing. I even started work on the book that I've been saying I would write for the last 20 years.
Granted, I've stopped and started and binned my efforts more than a few times but there's a paragraph or two that have made the cut. And the strangest thing is that since I changed my approach to these late-night shenanigans, the hours I sleep have begun to increase. I've gone from averaging four hours to often getting as much as six and those additional 120 minutes can be the difference between feeling alive and feeling like the walking dead.
The only problem I have now is that without those extra hours that book will never get finished or see the light of day, news which I'm sure will help those who love their literature continue to get a good night's sleep.
https://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/life/weekend/kerry-mclean-now-ive-overcome-insomnia-that-book-i-vowed-to-write-may-never-get-finished-36527173.html
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