Ah, the golden years. I’ve officially joined the “early-bird special and 4pm dinner” club, which apparently comes with a free lifetime subscription to You Must Get Your Sleep lectures. Doctors, kids, neighbours, even that chatty lady at the pharmacy… they’ve all chimed in. “Sleep is essential for seniors!” they say. Got it. Noted. Tattooed on my brain.
Problem is, my brain missed the memo that it’s supposed to cooperate at night.
Insomnia has moved in like an uninvited houseguest. No rent, eats all the midnight snacks, and loves to redecorate my thoughts at 2:37am. It’s not just me either, turns out us vintage models around the world are all fighting the same nocturnal gremlin.
Maybe it’s stress. Maybe my mind decided bedtime is the perfect moment to replay every awkward thing I said since 1987. Or maybe it’s just one of those nights when my pillow transforms into a bag of bricks, and my blanket challenges me to an Olympic-level tug-of-war. Spoiler: the blanket usually wins by technical knockout.
So yes, I know sleep is essential. My body knows it. My doctor knows it. The only one who didn’t get the group text… is my ability to actually fall asleep.
So instead of a bed full of dreams, you wake up with a bed full of frustration. It’s like ordering a peaceful eight-hour nap and getting served a live-action documentary titled You, Wide Awake, Starring You.
Fancy science calls it sleep state misperception or paradoxical insomnia. Regular folks call it “the scam.” It’s a sleep disorder where your body clocks out but your brain refuses to sign the timesheet.
You’re technically asleep, but your brain swears it’s pulling an all-nighter.
Nobody really knows why this happens. Maybe your brain activity decided to install a 24/7 security system. Maybe it’s psychological gremlins having a board meeting. Either way, the result is the same: you lie there on high alert like a night-shift guard for your own bedroom. You hear the fridge hum, the dog snore, your neighbour's cat plotting world domination… all of it.
Your thoughts turn into a hamster on an espresso binge, sprinting laps at 3am. And when morning finally rolls around, you’re convinced you were awake for the entire director’s cut of the night, complete with bonus features and commentary. Meanwhile, your sleep tracker is like, “Congrats! 7.5 hours of deep sleep.” Sure, Jan.
Here’s the cruel punch line: despite all that “I didn’t sleep a wink” drama, your body did sneak in some rest. Your brain just forgot to send you the receipt. Which makes the whole thing extra infuriating. It’s like paying for a five-star hotel, sleeping in the lobby, and still getting charged for room service.
Some folks call it a temporary setback. Yeah, right. Trust me, when this “temporary” hitch shows up at your door, it brings luggage, unpacks in your guest room, and starts forwarding its mail. It’s here for the long haul.
Biological science, ever the party pooper, explains that aging makes sleep trickier. Blame a cocktail of biology, lifestyle, and all those fun health plot twists we collect like loyalty points. The official verdict: our sleep architecture gets remodelled. Less “deep sleep suite,” more “revolving door with frequent night-time wake-up calls.”
And the rule seems to be this: the more ruffled your mind gets, the more restless your pillow becomes. They’re in cahoots, I swear. The pillow suddenly develops opinions, corners, and a personal vendetta.
The real kicker? The moment you flop into bed, desperate for sleep, your brain clocks in for the night shift. Suddenly it’s CEO of Over thinking Inc. “Oh, you need rest? Perfect time to solve world peace, rewrite 1992, and alphabetize your regrets!”
So you lie there, exhausted, while your brain runs a TED Talk at 2am. Your body might be resting, but your mind is doing Cross Fit.
So you’ve slept, but you don’t feel slept. It’s the ultimate buy-one-get-none-free deal from the Sandman.
Then the midnight board meeting starts. First item on the agenda: breakfast negotiations. Bread with peanut butter and strawberry jam, or should blueberry stage a last-minute coup? Critical decisions. National security level stuff. At 3am.
They say getting at least six hours of sleep is an investment in tomorrow’s competence. Like a mutual fund for your energy. Problem is, my brain treats bedtime like the stock market floor on a caffeine binge.
If you can’t sleep, stop interrogating yourself. “Even the moon clocks out, why can’t I?” Spoiler: the moon isn’t lying there checking the ceiling for cracks and life choices. Just get up and do something. Lying in the dark, wrestling your worries, is how the insomnia gremlins win. It’s not the lack of sleep that bullies you. It’s the worry doing roundhouse kicks to your sanity.
I’ve learned not to chase sleep like it skipped town with my wallet. That never works. Instead, I pivot. I become a lottery strategist at 3:12am, crunching potential jackpot numbers with the intensity of a NASA launch. A mug of creamed coffee, some quality time with the PC glow, and suddenly I’m living my best nocturnal life. Beats tossing around in a dreamless sleep that feels like reading a 400-page novel where every word is “blah.”
And very often, right as I close my eyes at 3am, my brain yanks the microphone and announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s TED Talk: How to Eliminate World Hunger Using Only Socks and Good Intentions.”
So yeah, I may not be asleep. But at least my brain’s solving problems. Unhelpful, unrequested problems, but problems nonetheless.
And oh, there’s more. As the night drags on, it starts whispering secrets. The kind of VIP gossip only card-carrying members of the Sleepless Club get to hear. Stuff like “remember that email you sent in 2014?” and “what if pigeons are government drones?”
No doubt about it: my bed and I are soul mates. We’re Ross and Rachel, minus the breaks. But sleepless nights keep handing me free VIP passes to the Over-Thinking Olympics. Sprint events, marathon events, synchronized worry. When the whistle blows, I just have to tap out.
So I haul myself out of bed, throwing it an apologetic glance as it sobs dramatically, “I want you back!” The blanket does a sad, empty hug. The pillow files a complaint with HR. I feel terrible, like I’m breaking up with furniture.
Which makes me wonder: am I low-key allergic to my bed? Is there a latex-free, drama-free mattress out there for people like me?
My tuition students have already branded me a night owl. They see me green-dot active on Face book, Instagram, and Watsapp at 3:47am and assume I’m cool. Plot twist: I’m not an owl. I’m an over-thinking raven, perched on a wire of anxiety, cawing at every stray thought that flies by. That’s why I can’t sleep at night, and why my daytime naps have the success rate of a screen door on a submarine.
Sleep these days feels like a unicorn. You know, that mythical creature everyone talks about but nobody’s actually met since medieval times. I’m pretty sure I won’t be spotting one tonight either.
If sleep were a person, we’ve been “talking” for months. I’ve left it on read, dodged its calls, and I’m now hovering dangerously close to ghosting it entirely. Block button, here we come.
Falling asleep these days feels less like drifting off and more like gearing up to summit Mount Insomnia. Oxygen tanks, Sherpa, motivational playlist. The peak? A solid three hours of shut-eye, if the weather holds.
Night-time sleep is extra hard when your whole day was a master class in procrastination. I suspect I’ve developed a rare condition called pillow resistance. Symptoms include rolling, sighing, and glaring at your pillow like it insulted your ancestors.
I tried the classic counting sheep trick. Bad news: the sheep have unionized. They sent a rep. Apparently I’m not authorized to count them after business hours. No overtime, no exceptions. Something about labour laws and poor fencing conditions.
Fine, I thought, maybe I’ll count all the embarrassing things I’ve ever done instead. Even worse idea. Each memory hires more sheep for the union. By the time I get to seventh grade, there’s a full picket line outside the pen and nobody’s jumping anywhere.
If this is insomnia, it has a real flair for the dramatic. Its official greeting is “Welcome to the Declining Years, please enjoy your complimentary 3am existential crisis.” And right on cue, at 3:07am, I’m hit with a burning need to become an expert on ancient Mesopotamian irrigation techniques. Urgent stuff.
Who needs sleep when you can enrol in the University of Ceiling Fan? Major: Blade Rotation Studies. Minor: Existential Dread. I don’t even own an alarm clock anymore. My ideas have a better wake-up call service. They show up uninvited, with PowerPoint's.
All these plot twists are apparently part of the aging DLC. Back when I was younger and could still see my toes without a mirror, happiness was simple: it meant getting enough sleep. Now happiness is remembering why I walked into the kitchen at 3am.
Progress? But now? Oh, it’s a whole new sitcom. Different cast, worse time slot.
Zzzzzzzzzzz…
Just kidding. That’s the sound I wish I was making. In reality it’s more like: Z… checks phone... z... remembers that thing from 2009... z... starts researching if porcupines can get passports.
The live studio audience? Just my ceiling fan, clapping slowly.
ENDS
By
Sam Trailerman
Nganasegaran (tapessam@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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