Insomnia
Lucia has finally started sleeping more reliably through the night, and we’re gradually phasing out the 5 a.m. feeding. This is great news. The problem is that now that Lucia is sleeping more, I’ve stopped sleeping altogether.
Beginning a week ago, I simply stopped sleeping. It began with my not being able to fall back asleep after she woke up in the middle of the night. Monday and Tuesday, she got up around 4 a.m., and that was it for me. Wednesday, she woke up around 1 a.m., and I was up the rest of the night. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, I couldn’t fall asleep at all; I got a maximum of six hours total for all three of those nights.
I’ve tried sleeping on the couch. I’ve tried sleeping in the guest room. I’ve tried eye masks, and big meals. I’ve tried drinking a big glass of red wine and watching Master and Commander, the most boring movie in the world. I’ve tried reading. I’ve tried sleeping with Andrew and without Andrew. I’ve tried Tylenol, and Benadryl, and Unisom—even a double dose. Nothing gets me to sleep. I get close—teetering on the edge of sleep—and then rise right back to awakeness.
Needless to say, I am a zombie. I may feel worse now than I did when Lucia was a newborn—at least then I could sleep when I had the chance to. I’ve never had sleep problems, and certainly not anything as prolonged as this. And at this point I’ve moved from frustration to a kind of panic, which just makes sleep even more unlikely. I’m waiting for the point where my body just crashes; but that hasn’t happened yet.
Sleep seems like a distant memory. There’s nothing lonelier than being awake in the middle of the night, pulse and thoughts racing, unable to get comfortable, filled with the knowledge that every passing second is one more second of sleep lost forever and that, come morning, there will be a baby to care for, a day to get through.
Beginning a week ago, I simply stopped sleeping. It began with my not being able to fall back asleep after she woke up in the middle of the night. Monday and Tuesday, she got up around 4 a.m., and that was it for me. Wednesday, she woke up around 1 a.m., and I was up the rest of the night. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, I couldn’t fall asleep at all; I got a maximum of six hours total for all three of those nights.
I’ve tried sleeping on the couch. I’ve tried sleeping in the guest room. I’ve tried eye masks, and big meals. I’ve tried drinking a big glass of red wine and watching Master and Commander, the most boring movie in the world. I’ve tried reading. I’ve tried sleeping with Andrew and without Andrew. I’ve tried Tylenol, and Benadryl, and Unisom—even a double dose. Nothing gets me to sleep. I get close—teetering on the edge of sleep—and then rise right back to awakeness.
Needless to say, I am a zombie. I may feel worse now than I did when Lucia was a newborn—at least then I could sleep when I had the chance to. I’ve never had sleep problems, and certainly not anything as prolonged as this. And at this point I’ve moved from frustration to a kind of panic, which just makes sleep even more unlikely. I’m waiting for the point where my body just crashes; but that hasn’t happened yet.
Sleep seems like a distant memory. There’s nothing lonelier than being awake in the middle of the night, pulse and thoughts racing, unable to get comfortable, filled with the knowledge that every passing second is one more second of sleep lost forever and that, come morning, there will be a baby to care for, a day to get through.
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