Sleep-deprived. Fixing it.

Okay. So this happens, that happens. I’m back in hellhole. I was this Goddess once. And now I’m a worm. It may be the mind and the absence of self confidence. But when you feel something quite enough to destroy you, well, you feel it. It affects you. Your moods. Your well being. Your relationships. Your relationship-less-nesses. Everything. The worst is , it affects your sleep. And that is when things go crazy. Clinical crazy. 

My first experiment was part of my routine. Warm milk. It was another theory proving ‘the world is divided into two–“me” and “the rest of the world”. Milk made me more energetic. I started binge reading, binge watching, binge worrying. Ta–da–my insomnia was insomniac.

My second was also part of my routine. Reading at bedtime. I would say it kind of works — if you’re reading a non fiction. Or a newspaper. Or your child’s school text book. My choices were inappropriate. My empathy towards the characters made me weep more, and at one point a certain family member pulled the book out of my wet hands, and threw it out of the window, which I recovered the following day. Hmm … So that hardly worked. It could have. Well it didn’t. The point is, be less insomniac. Don’t feed it.

My third experiment was to work till I’d be worn out. So after preparing sumptuous supper, I started heavy cleaning. Scrubbing walls, floors, toilets, folding and refolding clothes, rearranging furniture, changing curtains, dusting fans. And then the certain family member threatened that he’ll have me checked for issues. And I stopped. Also, working your ass out when everyone is either watching movies or listening to songs or news, or simply lazing — not the greatest thing for a troubled mind. My inferiority complex was at its prime. I felt jealous. My body was worn out. My mind was alert and conspiring ways to dislike my family, which wasn’t the point. So, less chores now.

The current experiment that actually works is — running. Jogging or brisk brisk walking. I do remember to listen to “the fastest and loudest” songs, that make sound louder than my thoughts. I have company who teach me how to run. How to keep the toes. And not the soles. And not the blah blah blah. So I can peacefully listen to ear-wrecking songs, and not advices, and run, and dream, and wear out. That — kind of works. Running, like yoga, feels healing. I feel less bruised, less threatened, the fears kind of dwindle. I kind of look forward to my jogging a sessions (with music and advices shut out). Last night, the certain family member pulled out my bedtime book again, because I was sleeping my best, and my drool was damaging the paper. 

I think I’m in love with sleep again. 

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