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Illustration by Sarah Farquhar
The award for “Worst Portrayal of an Expert in a Self-Help Article or Top 10 Listicle” goes to the sleep expert. I believe I speak for all insomniacs when I say we’ve read every single piece on the subject written by every single sleep expert since the cave drawings, usually between 3:23 and 5:01 a.m., and none of them has helped. Not one.
They haven’t even offered an original idea that a two-year-old who can say the word “camomile” couldn’t have come up with. Even the faint hope that we might nod off from boredom while reading them is crushed by the obligatory last paragraph describing the degenerative brain diseases we’re developing in real time – cue the rush of adrenalin.
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We only continue to read these articles because we are a weak and desperate audience grasping for any lifeline.
But I’ve had enough. Let’s face it, the only expert on insomnia is an insomniac, and I’m an expert. Look at me, I’m the captain now. And I have a theory: Insomniacs operate on a 32-hour day.
That’s it. Simple. Elegant. Put down your torches, Canadian Medical Association, my qualifications as a scientist are as follows: I’ve played one on TV, my brother is a scientist (but I haven’t consulted him because he’s on vacation), if RFK Jr. can do it, so can I – it’s a free-for-all.
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So hear me out: An insomniac simply has too much energy for a 24-hour cycle – my empirical evidence being the hazardous amount of electricity coursing through my neurotransmitters while the rest of the world is enjoying REM. We have so much energy, in fact, that we can stay awake and continue to perform at an optimum level for the entirety of that 24-hour cycle and then, and only then, fall into those yummy eight hours of sleep the “normals” are always bragging about.
Instead, we’re forced to go to bed when our day is just getting started and we’re feeling our best. It’s like stopping Mary Richards just as she’s about to toss her hat in the air with “Into your jammies now and nighty night.”
We’re thrown into our bedrooms like prisoners into a cell, marking our time on mattresses by rearranging pillows and changing positions with military stealth so we don’t wake up our partner (insomniacs never marry each other, by the way). We can’t get up and clean the house – too noisy. We can’t take prescription sleeping pills – okay, we can and I did, but I loved those little babies so much I had to stop before I crossed over to the dark side.
Lying awake night after night, we are wasting precious hours and an unmined energy resource. We could be curing cancer, saving the oceans, winning dance marathons, instead of staring at Satan’s red numbers on a digital clock.
I’m convinced that at some point in human history there was a purpose for people with a 32-hour cycle in their DNA. Maybe we tracked sabre-toothed tigers. We probably built the pyramids. Definitely we were moms. Whatever the purpose, times have changed. And just as introverts know the world is run by extroverts, so insomniacs know the world is run by the “gone when my head hits the pillow” crowd.
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It’s an uneven playing field. We should be allotted at least one year – just one year with a 32-hour day – so we can catch up in this rigged race and everyone else can learn to appreciate what it’s like to stumble through the world looking and feeling like the walking dead.
But no, that would be too dangerous. Surviving life on Earth with a brain of mush requires skills developed over millennia. Without them, the newbies would perish. We must accept our fate and soldier on with the humble hope that one day we’ll find a modern-day purpose for our misplaced superpower.
In conclusion, I refuse to mention degenerative brain diseases coming our way – oops, sorry – and instead end on a positive note with a new tip and a solemn promise.
My tip: try bringing an ice pack to bed. Weird, I know, but sometimes it helps me, probably because all my brain can focus on is the fact I was stupid enough to bring an ice pack to bed.
My promise: to anyone struggling in the wee hours, you are not alone, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s an insomniac enduring a rough night, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s a weary mother breastfeeding her newborn, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s a guy breaking into my neighbour’s garage as I watch from my upstairs window … wait, what … okay, I lied, you’re on your own, buddy, but only for a quick minute, while I run to call the police. Hey, maybe we do have a purpose. I think the sun is coming up.
Kathryn Greenwood lives in Toronto.
