Insomnia

I used to think I was an insomniac.

I'm not. I just don't like to go to sleep at 9 pm.

Seems silly, but I was ready to try serious sleeping pills because if eleven rolled around and I was awake: PANIC! OMG I'm never going to sleep AGAIN!

And I wouldn't.

And then, clarity. I. Am. A. Night. Owl. For reals. I always have been, but I forgot, somewhere along the line. And I did have some justified and righteous sleepless nights, but the reason for them stopped and my own worry took over and then the worry was so big I couldn't see around it. So I went to my doctor and got a small prescription, for a sleep aid I took hesitantly. It seemed like a copout, but this had dragged on for years already, and I needed sleep!

And I got some, and my rested brain realized: I. Am. A. Night. Owl. I like being up in the dark, in the quiet. I have always loved reading my way to sleep, finishing a book and snuggling beneath covers to dream the story I just read. Or staying up late, talking deep talks and silly thoughts with friends until the conversation collapsed in exhaustion and stumble off into sleep we'd go...

And if I fall asleep between two and threeish am, and I wake at nine to stumble to the kitchen and feed the dogs and pour some coffee and start the day, I'm good. I feel...rested. Happy.

Yes, I will still pick an occasional too-long book that sends me to sleep to late, and I'll wake uber-groggy and a bit snarly. Or I'll have a thought my brain can't let go of--usually something I need to do, or should do, or would be a good idea to do, but that I am hesitant to do for one reason or another--that keeps me tossing and turning and disturbing the trying-to-sleep cats. But that is not insomnia. That's an occasional bad night.

The problem wasn't not being able to sleep, the problem was going to bed when I wasn't tired, which (hold back the surprise!) led to not sleeping right away, which led to the PANICS! and the not sleeping, ever.

But.

I am not, actually, an insomniac.

And the moral is: don't be afraid to ask for help. And medicine is often good for you, don't be afraid to take it. And, sometimes, you are just asking the wrong question.

Fishing for gall bladders

In the mail today, an ad for Carolina Surgical:

"Over 48 years of experience with -plasties, -ectomies, -oscopies, and -opsies."

Am I supposed to be sitting in my living room, flipping through my mail, and glance at the card and suddenly think, "OMG! I've been wanting a spleenectomy or a liver biopsy, but neither I nor my doctor had any idea of where I could have such a procedure. Now, I feel safe placing my life in the hands of these people, smiling up at me on this advertising postcard!"

Oh, wait, upon further reading, it says "almost 50 years of combined experience." So, if we have 4 surgeons that means one could have 20 years, one 10, and the other two 5ish? Or ten years each?

I seem too get these glossy cards from three main sources: churches, auto/tire repair shops, and medical practioners. Three groups I would think would be most likely to do best by to by word-of-mouth.

On the plus side, if I ever do just decide I've put off that double mastectomy or hernia operation long enough, I have a number to call...

Next up, Sewing!

I want to learn to sew. I’ve decided. Oh, I’ve whipped up a curtain or two…but I want to really sew.

Step One: find sewing machine.

Step Two: find instruction manual so I can finally figure out how the underneath-thingy that holds the thread works.

Step Three: admit I can’t find the instruction manual, try to work the underneath-thingy anyway.

Step Four: pound head on desk in frustration.

Step Five: pound sewing machine on desk in frustration.

Step Six: break sewing machine.

Step Seven: go to store and buy new, MUCH BETTER ANYWAY sewing machine, SO THERE OLD SEWING MACHINE THAT DIDN’T WORK ANYWAY, PFHHT. One with an instruction manual THAT I CAN FIND.

Step Eight: sew. All kinds of stuff

On second thought, maybe I should just skip steps 1-6…