You can sleep when you're dead.

melting clocks, copious coffee and busted brains

A reminder that I record all my Substacks, so you can listen to them by pressing play above if you don’t feel like reading.

In December I wrote a slightly unhinged Substack told from the perspective of the evil mosquito that comes for me in the heat and depth of the summer night. I had hoped writing about the experience would make it less horrendous, but despite my attempt to satirize and humanize the damn thing, it still sucks real bad, literally and figuratively when I wake up in the night sweating from heat while my skin reels from the bites.

From 5-6 this morning I tossed, turned, scratched and slapped like an addict. I wanted to get under the sheets, but it was far too hot, even with the fan powering through above our heads. Anticipating my 6:30 alarm, I considered writing tonight’s Substack about my complicated relationship with sleep. And here we are.

Well before I discovered my best friend coffee in college, I always loved an excuse to stay awake.

I’ve read the stories and heard the rumors of people who require far less than the average eight hours of sleep to thrive. Sometimes I wonder if I’m one of them. I don’t remember struggling to sleep as a child, but I do remember staying up all night long to sneak calls to friends or boyfriends, first on the cordless phone and then on to my cool Nokia cell when I turned 16. One of the most infamous moments from my teenage years was when, after talking nearly all night to a boy, I pulled out of my driveway the next morning, (with ice that I had not scraped lining my rearview window) and ploughed butt first into a school bus full of children. (It was actually stopped to pick up my brother and take him to middle school.) He exited the house, saw the wreck I’d made and promptly walked back inside.

Fortunately no children were harmed, but I totalled my Altima and worse my teenage ego. (I’ve written about this before) That’s right, I am not as invincible as I like to think I am. Last week I caught up with a friend and her one year old. As I bounced the baby on my lap I joked to her that, while I worry that I don’t sleep, I always think to myself, “you could have a baby, Alex. It could always be worse.”

I can be quite neurotic; sometimes I wonder if the awareness that I haven’t slept is worse than the not sleeping.

In college I made a passing grade on a sleep research project for my psychology class, weighing up my roommate and dorm mates’ sleep patterns in contrast to my own. My essay began with the story of Salvador Dali seeking inspiration by dozing off with a spoon in his hand. What he saw between when the spoon left his fingers and then clattered to the floor, waking him up, gave him the visions he painted.

Last night was rough, but it’s been years since I’ve had a phenomenal night’s sleep.

I last saw my Uncle Pete around my 21st birthday, a few months before he passed away. He talked to me about how he too struggled to sleep. We laughed bittersweetly, discussing the familiar feeling of trying to catch sleep as it rolls into the room.

I apply deep breathing strategies, I repeat poems in my head and sometimes I feel it perching on my pillow, that sweet heavy state of peace… But then, suddenly, I get excited about my release from reality, and it whisks away from me again. It’s a tormented teenage romance, you can only get it if you don’t want it.

I tend to sleep well on vacation, when I have nowhere to be in the morning. I lived for a few months with an ex boyfriend and his parents. He and I didn’t have much on, and I slept gorgeously. In my early 20s, I was unhappy about how little I was doing with myself, but between the strolls to the grocery store, the wanders in the garden and the serious Thirty Rock bingeing, I found my empty head resting hard on the pillows every night. Humans aren’t meant to roll out of bed and concur the day.

An old housemate used to struggle with sleep. He told me, “if you aren’t sleeping you just aren’t tired enough.” Sometimes his words bring me comfort as I stare at the infinite ceiling or scroll my never-ending feed.

Anyway, thanks to the evil mosquitos messing with my fragile head and inspiring tonight’s substack. Below are some nice lyrics from the Ani Difranco’s song “Pixie” about sleep and being a good person. Send me your sleep tips. I already have melatonin. And I know, I know, put the phone away.

Maybe you don't like your job
Maybe you didn't get enough sleep
Well, nobody likes their job
Nobody got enough sleep
Maybe you just had
The worst day of your life
But, you know, there's no escape
And there's no excuse
So just suck up
Suck up
Suck up and be nice