Few things are worse than sinking into bed, awaiting that blissful moment when your body throws the switch that plummets you into the depths of slumber, and finding that it doesn't happen, that the switch no longer works and you lie there hour after hour, till the birds start exercising their vocal chords and the once dark curtains go grey, then sunshine filters through. The sheer sick weariness is beyond belief. That is how I feel today. 1, 2.30, 3.42, 4.55 - I saw the night tick away and eventually staggered up, red-eyed, at 5.30 looking as if I'd just come off a night flight.
What is the answer? None of my usual remedies seem to work any more. My ears have grown accustomed to my white noise machine and instead of it acting as a sound screen, they listen for sounds beyond it, the 3 am motorbike, Mr Boom-box swaggering down the road in his souped up Escort, someone coming back from a late shift and banging doors.
How I long for a dark, silent, relaxing room. There is only one in this house, but that is the nightly residence of Mr Grumpy, who watches TV till he starts to drift off, then sleeps with the radio blaring, so no sanctuary there. In fact, that is why I moved downstairs. I really think I shall have to move before I go crazy and ill through lack of sleep. I don't think I'll get much book written today. Instead, in the wee small uncomfortable creased-sheeted hours, I began to find flaws in it, things I shall have to take out or change. I need to redirect the course of an entire relationship. Maybe two, only one of which is fictional...
1 week ago