I’ve never been a good sleeper. I’m quite jealous of those who are. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember, and, according to my parents, it was the case before that. Sleeping is just not a talent I was born with, nor is it a skill I’ve been able to develop. Naturally, depression is making it worse.
It didn’t have to be this way. Depression, as I’ve written about before, is weird. For some people, it causes them to sleep too much (I feel like there should be a word for that. Hypersomnia? Supersomnia?). For others, like me, it causes insomnia. Oh how I wish to be a hypersomniac. Five to six hours a night is pretty normal for me, with the occasional eight hour binge to catch up. Lately, I have trouble cracking the four hour mark. It’s exhausting.
I’m doing my best. I haven’t touched caffeine (or any other stimulant) in well over a year. I only use my bed for sleeping. I don’t eat or exercise before bed. I even read real books instead of watching TV or using the computer to wind down. None of it is working.
I’m going to see my doctor tomorrow and I’m afraid he’s going to prescribe something. I should probably welcome it, but the idea is making me nervous. It shouldn’t. I trust my doctor. On some level, though, it feels like cheating. I’ll still be a lousy sleeper since the meds do all the work. Really, I should stop worrying about things that haven’t happened yet and might not happen at all. But what fun would depression be then?