From telegraph.co.uk/health-fitness
By Jo Elvin
I bet a lot of people find themselves facing insomnia for the same reason I did: by becoming obsessed with sleep
I was in my early 20s, new to London (from Sydney) and thrilled to have scored a magazine job on a teenage pop title. I loved that job – and not just because it meant I found myself doing things like clubbing with Robbie Williams. Not so glamorous were the hours, which were, frankly, inhumane. We were a tiny team of virtual children and chaotic as hell with it. It was a regular occurrence to do 30 hours straight in the office, especially in the days leading up to a deadline. Once, when the regular account car driver dropped me home, at 7am on a Saturday morning, he said: “Get another job, love. They’re killing you.”
It was around this time that I became anxious about what a lack of sleep must be doing to my health. I knew I looked awful – dark circles and a puffy face, even though I weighed all of eight stone. I figured this lifestyle must be doing terrible things to me on the inside as well. I was so tired all the time. If I wasn’t at work I was shunning any and all social invitations and devoting myself to the dream of getting more sleep.
When would I be able to leave the office and get some sleep? When could I get more? Whenever I was in bed, I’d lie there calculating how many hours I could get before I had to get up again. If it was less than seven, I’d fret about how unhealthy that was and fixate on how dreadful I’d feel the next day. I was getting so little sleep that I became completely consumed with the subject and guess what? I slept even less.
I would race home to bed and lie there, wound up, unable to switch off. As the minutes turned to hours, I’d despair. From my flat in south London I could hear Big Ben striking off each hour and by 4am I’d often be crying.
I started self-medicating but sleeping pills just made me feel drowsy and heavy-lidded whilst still awake. I went through a phase of adding alcohol and marijuana to the mix, which did sometimes help me to pass out for a couple of hours. But of course we all know that alcohol in particular is the enemy of deep sleep and makes you just snap awake at some point in the middle of the night.
This next bit sounds insane I know but sometimes I’d be so frustrated and anxiety-ridden I’d slap myself in the face, repeatedly, as hard as I could stand. I have no idea what I thought that would achieve. Just a vent for the rage of not being able to sleep? I think I thought I might actually be able to knock myself out. Who knows? I was not a well girl. It didn’t occur to me to see a doctor about any of this. I can’t believe how clueless I was about my own self-care in my 20s.
Even though I moved on from the killer hours job, the number on my head had been done. I did sleep a bit more, yes, but the obsession with it was unshakeable. On the many occasions that I’d snap awake in the wee hours, I would lie there tossing, turning, totting up the hours slept and then fretting about what it all meant for the working day ahead.
The turning point finally came when, aged 35, I had a baby. But I don’t think you need to have a baby to share in my epiphany.
Of course you expect to be sleepless when you have an infant, but it’s still impossible to really prepare for and understand exactly how mind-blowingly tired you’ll be.
But the lightbulb moment came when she was about eight weeks old. I was facing my fourth consecutive day of having had maybe an hour’s sleep the night before. Honestly I can still remember how dire I felt: stinging eyes, nausea, every joint aching. And, true to form, my anxiety about it was through the roof. How would I get through this interminable day? How would I even find the strength to walk from my bedroom to my baby daughter’s cot, let alone somehow keep her alive all day? My only hope was that she’d sleep long enough at some point in the day for me to maybe grab a cat nap.
One small issue with that: as my husband was leaving for work, he reminded me that the electricians were coming to install new radiators. I could have cried. I probably did, actually, I was so tired and hormonal. They arrived, they clomped about and they drilled and drilled all day. I wouldn’t be sleeping. Then to my horror, I remembered: I’d invited my friend Kath around for lunch. Good god. I can’t, I thought. I left her a voicemail apologising profusely but begging to reschedule for when I’d had some sleep.
At 1pm, the doorbell rang and there was Kath, beaming at me. Oh. She had clearly not got my message. And what was I going to do? Make things awkward by telling her I’d tried to cancel? Nope, I welcomed her in, already knowing that later that day she would finally hear my miserable “I’m knackered, sorry!” message, but we would cross that bridge.
I still wonder to this day if it was some kind of divine intervention that delayed her hearing that message. Because that visit – that day – changed everything about my mindset. I pulled myself together for the sake of my friend who’d made the effort to come and see me. She made me laugh, and as a mum herself eased my millions of anxieties about whether or not I was doing a good enough job of keeping this baby alive. When Kath arrived, I seriously wondered how I’d have the energy to get through the visit. By the time she left, I felt completely energised. That was the day I realised that a terrible night’s sleep is not the end of the world. I felt so physically and emotionally bankrupt and yet still I had managed to not only plough through the day and survive it, I had enjoyed it.
It was the day I finally stopped obsessing about whether or not I had slept or not. That was nearly 20 years ago and ever since, if I’m lying in bed awake and somehow not able to drop off, I don’t get wound up about it at all. I stay rational about what it will mean for the next day. Even if I only sleep for a couple of hours, I will be fine, I tell myself. You might not be sleeping right now but you are resting, and rest is the next best thing to sleep (a therapist told me that).
Here’s the thing: That subtle but significant shift in my mindset has meant that I sleep well. Almost always.
Dr Guy Meadows is a sleep psychologist and founder of the pioneering sleep clinic, The Sleep School. He laughs wryly as I tell him my story. “You’ve managed to crack for yourself what I dedicated 20 years of my life to understanding.”
Not everyone appreciates my advice to “just stop worrying” about insomnia. But as challenging as it can be to make that mental adjustment, it’s been a life-changing one, and easily more effective than drugging myself, exhausting myself and definitely a better strategy than slapping myself in my own stupid face.
To my surprise, my approach is an actual clinical technique. “You’ve stumbled upon the acceptance and commitment theory or ACT, which is how I treat my insomniac patients,” says Dr Meadows. Which is essentially to stop railing against negative thoughts or feelings of “I can’t sleep, tomorrow will be a disaster” and accept them. The preoccupation with trying to fall asleep is the thing that will stop you falling asleep.
“If you ask a person who sleeps well what they do to get to sleep, the answer will be nothing,” says Dr Meadows. “Ask an insomniac and they’ll have a list as long as your arm involving an hours-long wind down process, or sleepy teas, or particular room conditions.
“Insomnia is, at its heart, an anxiety disorder, one in which we’ve basically trained our brains to fear those moments of trying to sleep. The more you struggle with feeling anxious about wakefulness, the more awake you will be. You’ve found for yourself that it’s possible to train the brain to have a different, more accepting relationship with this anxiety and it can be life-changing for insomniacs.”
It truly can be. I no longer approach the night, or sleep, as another big job to conquer. Gone is the anxiety I used to feel as I worked myself up into a panic in the hours before turning in. I used to feel so bad for a fellow magazine editor when we were away in Milan or Paris for the fashion shows. She used to get so excited about the joy of having a hotel room to herself, away from her nocturnal toddler to score a few nights of unbroken sleep. Only, she would usually be quite downbeat when I saw her because she was not sleeping. Whether it was the temperature of the hotel room, or a weird banging pipe noise, or just noisy people in the corridors, somehow this dream of a precious, full night’s sleep eluded her. I’m convinced it was because she was so consumed with anxiety about getting to sleep that she just couldn’t relax enough to do it.
I’m not saying that I now always sleep brilliantly every night. That’s not my point. It’s simply that I no longer have anxiety about it if I don’t. I remind myself that the body really is a self-governing state and will get what it needs. Because I’ve made the conscious decision to trust my body on this, I’m not anxious at all any more about sleep. Which, funnily enough, helps me to just relax.
A few other things I have learnt that work for me:
Having a sleep divorce
I applaud the growing movement to normalise this. It’s just better for both my husband and me if we sleep separately. He snores so much, which keeps me awake. My anger about being kept awake means he often lies there scared to breathe, so he doesn’t sleep either. Our relationship could not survive our mismatched sleeping needs.
I play this trick on myself
If I really cannot seem to relax enough to drop off, I put myself through reverse psychology. OK, I tell myself, you’re not allowed to shut your eyes. Don’t you dare. Keep those eyes open. It always works.
I never drink coffee after midday
If caffeine is in my system, I’ll be struggling to sleep. It’s why I also leave the chocolate well alone in the evening.
My phone never comes to bed
The blue light from our phones is a brain stimulant that keeps us wired. My phone goes off by 10pm each night and stays off. I can’t get my head around anyone who is able to sleep next to it when it’s lighting up and pinging with b-------t all night.
I don’t have a clock
If I need to set an alarm, I still face any clock away from me so I can’t roll over in the middle of the night and look at the time. Nothing good comes from me knowing that it’s 4am and I need to get up in two hours. If I’m oblivious about the hour, I don’t start running that maths through my head. It’s one of the best things I have ever done to ease my sleep anxiety.
I only use my bedroom for sleep
No work, no television, nothing but sleep and well, yes... that other thing that happens in bedrooms. Psychologically I just think it’s no bad thing to have a space that your mind associates with nothing but the end of the day and restfulness.
I exercise a lot
In my 20s and 30s, I was an insomniac and also I barely moved. I’m sure these two facts are linked. There is science behind how exercise helps you sleep, but I think it’s another psychological tool for me. I know that if I’m working out regularly, my body will do the work of putting itself in recovery mode. It’s another way I’ve taught myself to trust the vessel I’m in to get what it needs.
I stretch a lot
Whenever I’ve carved out 20 minutes or so to do it properly it is a game changer for deeper relaxation. There’s tons of content on YouTube to give you guided stretching exercises. It’s an incredible (and free) gift you can give yourself.
I give myself permission to admit defeat
If it’s truly making me feel despairing and worrying about the next day, I tell myself, OK, stay home and call in sick. I’ve never actually gone through with this, because the second I tell myself that that’s an option, I relax a little bit more and then I fall asleep.
https://www.telegraph.co.uk/health-fitness/wellbeing/sleep/ive-been-an-insomniac-for-twenty-years/
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