I didn’t sleep at all last night. Sounds like an old song, doesn’t it? Old people, be sure to chime in.
Truth is, I ran out of my prescription sleep aid. I’ve always been a hyper vigilant sleeper ever since I was a wee lass. I cannot sleep without my meds. Can’t sleep on a plane or train or bus, where there are strangers around me. It has nothing to do with being potentially horrified by my own drool or snoring. It has everything to do with my bedroom being on the way to the bathroom when there were card parties my parents hosted. My mom couldn’t figure out why I started wetting the bed at the age of six, especially since I was completely potty trained so early. The doctor said I was just too lazy to get up at night. You’d think I would be over early childhood night time intruders, but I guess not. Perverts. The gift that keeps on giving. Wah, wah, wah, we all have our sad stories. I’m baffled that it still affects me.
Don’t get me wrong. I have come a long, long way. At one time, I was afraid to sleep when I lived alone. I could only sleep when dawn broke. It set a pattern of sleep deprivation. I always had lots of energy, could get by on five hours, no problem.
It’s different now. To work properly and to deliver my best effort to my clients, I need more like six or seven hours now. Today, I didn’t log on at all. I was saving myself for the private, in person clients I had scheduled.
I was always terrified to take narcotic pain meds. I did not want to be addicted. Last night proved to me that I am addicted to my sleep meds. And, boy howdy, I am taking those puppies tonight.
Don’t you find it ironic that a woman who works in her jammies all day doesn’t get much sleep time in them?
I know I do.
And, please? I know there are lots of sympathetic folks out there who want to say poor you, but I am so not comfortable with that. It is what it is, my parents didn’t know, and they never dreamed their friendly neighbourhood card parties were attended by pedophiles.
From reading palms, I estimated that one out of every three women I read had been molested in childhood. I stopped looking in that area of the palm after a particularly naive woman was astounded when I told her that her brother was molesting her daughter. Her stunned reply: “I thought he had stopped when I was twelve. I thought she was safe.”
I replied that he stopped molesting her when she got too old for his tastes.
I just didn’t have the heart to tell another mother that. I don’t go there anymore.
Now do you understand why I refused to take my kids to sit on a department store Santa’s lap? I was suspicious that the old bugger would sport wood. There’s a reason why your kids cry when they have to sit on Santa’s lap. Listen to them. Validate their perceptions. And don’t make them hug or kiss anyone they do not want to.
Even if it’s Great Aunt Minnie. Maybe she just smells bad. I always let the kids come to me on their own terms, because to them, I smell like an old lady who smokes. And who doesn’t get enough sleep.