I want to die in my sleep not be murdered by it
"You got less than ideal sleep volume". Since August '24 I've had horrible sleep and if it continues there will be trouble ahead. Van Gogh, Jennifer Aniston, Maggie Thatcher, and me.
I slept well and it was beautiful, once.
Since then, the words I’d use to describe my night’s sleep would be: plain, rudimentary, good enough, barely sufficient, disappointing, desperate, wakeful, fretful, thin, light, disturbed and, on the two nights when my wearable logged a wretched two hours, ugly. Just bloody ugly sleep. Time was, sleeping five hours used to feel concerning. Two hours? It’s not enough, it’s desperate.
It was in this two hour state earlier this month that I left my overnight stay in London to catch the second Eurostar of the morning to Paris, it being the cheapest. Shuffling along with a leaden body that was somehow electrically alive with tiredness, the fact it was the cheapest ticket seemed crucial to my overall sense of wretchedness. In the control centre under my hat - I can never style my hair satisfactorily when I’m tired -my bubbleheaded thought process skittered between one pointless and unfocussed fret to another while I valiant tried to rationalise it all away with the soothing unconvincing mantra “You’ll be fine once you’ve slept.” The comfort in that thought is measly because over the last 12 months I don’t sleep well, ever.
Jennifer Aniston clearly knows the score, insomnia she said, is like a “committee in my head. I just start having conversations and they won’t shut up and then I can’t get back to sleep.”
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