Insomnia

One of the most irritating issues with FMS is the insomnia. Specifically (because I'm sure you're dying to know about my sleep issues) the inability to fall asleep, then difficulty staying asleep and trouble reaching that level of deep, healing sleep. I hang out in the crazy-assed REM sleep a whole lot. While it makes for fun or horrific stories, doesn't really help with my overall functioning.
If you take a gander at this handy graph, imagine staying at stage two or three and above most of the time you are sleeping. Lots of dreaming, easily woken up, and not a lot of rest. The deeper stages are where you heal mentally and physically. A normal sleep pattern means that you can spend time in various stages, whereas my sleep pattern means that I wake up feeling like a train wreck most of the time. Also, where many of you can sleep for six to eight hours and wake up refreshed, it takes me twelve to get enough deep sleep to feel like I actually slept. Which results in "your problem is that you sleep too much" or "you're tired because you sleep too much" or "usless assvice insert here". Because I know my fucked up body. I know what I can and cannot do to help it. It's not depression or laziness or the love of being horizontal (but fuck ya I like being horizontal) it's a constant struggle to get REAL sleep and feel rested when I wake up.

I swear I did not intend to write a post about sleep. I was going to talk about sex and big televisions and Anna and maybe my hair. However, last night I was up doing taxes at 1am because I couldn't sleep. Tonight? It's 12:20 and my taxes are filed and my paperwork is done and I'm exhausted but AWAKE. I already took my sleeping pill, but it only can do so much when my brain is working overtime about EVERYTHING.

OH! Something note-worthy and important. Listen up, Anna. You listening? Okay. Here's my plan. Saturday night we (you, me, Ewe Girl, Teddy Bear and Chicken) eat at Outback Steackhouse ( because they have a gluten-free menu) and then you and me and maybe Ewe Girl if she chooses to attend go to a local pub and proceed to get shitty and laugh at with people. Return home through crawling or taxi or Teddy Bear. Why, you ask my dear readers? What is the point of all this madness when I'm moving in a matter of weeks? Because I am turning the big three three next Monday.

I suck ass at birthdays. Thirty-two I was still reeling from the death of my father. Thirty-one I spent helping my short-lived boyfriend puke his guts out after drinking too much (did I mention the horrific surprise party? gawd it was bad). And? I was getting over the whole my dad accidentally lit himself on fire a tad bit and spent a month in the burn unit and almost died and I spent three weeks at his side and I must tell that story sometime soon. For some reason whenever I mention it in real life people laugh. I guess I AM that funny. Because it wasn't funny. It was horrific and terrible.

Thirty-one I don't even remember. But the big three-oh? H2 made me a nice dinner at the last minute. After I made a HUGE FUCKING DEAL about his thirtieth nine months before. I was pissed for a long time. Bastard.

So, I want 33 to be fun. Not the crazy shit of I'm 21 and I must puke all night long, just the happiness of being loved by friends and the positive outlook of Pollyanna that I will master. I will. Dammit. I will.

Post Script
I am typing this on TB's laptop which is not nearly as familiar as mine, so any and all typing/grammar/stupidity errors I blame on the fact that it is a DELL. Rhymes with HELL. I wonder why?