Sleep It Off

Last night I got a total of three fitful hours of sleep. The lights in my mind went out at three and I was back up at six. Dixon kept me company in these restless hours. There used to be a time when I only got four to five hours of sleep a night. After today, and the complete dysfunctionality (not a real word, but should be) of my brain, I cannot understand how I made it through all those years of next to no sleep.

Today was terrible.

Foggy head. Cloudy thoughts. Unwillingness to look on the brighter side of anything. I might as well have had a little grey storm cloud hanging over my head. Don't get me wrong, I faked it pretty good. Smiled pretty. Said kind things. Well, kind enough. And tried. I really did try today. But in the end, I felt negative.

They say sleep is one of the most important things, along with food and water, but I never really understood that until today. I bogged down at eight in the morning and never fully recovered. Now, I'm sitting here wondering if 8PM is too early for a grown woman to go to bed. If I had a child, people wouldn't think anything of it. Or if I was at least twenty years older. Sometimes it feels like you need a good excuse to go to bed, like being a mom, working a physically tiring job, or having jet lag.

I say, to the birds with that. Sometimes you don't need a good excuse for going to bed. Sometimes just being human is exhausting. Sometimes life is tiring, you know?

And I am grateful I can go to bed whenever I damn well please. Except for when I am at work. Apparently it's frowned upon to curl up on the comfy green couch and take a snooze. How would I know that?

Trial and error, my friends. Trial and error.

Needless to say if you are not a little ray of sunshine. If things seem daunting. In general, the day drags you down. You might not be getting enough sleep. Remember how when you got hurt in gym class the teacher told you to walk it off? Well, I think as you go through the later years of your life you should sleep things off. And now I am convinced. I'm going to bed. Dr. Tyson has left the building.

The Cool Side Of The Pillow

Couldn't sleep last night.

It comes and goes. As someone who used to sleep all but a couple hours a night, I can handle a little tossing and turning. While laying there in bed, the half moon streaming through my window, I thought about sleeping. Everyone has their way of doing things.

Myself, I like a cold room. Fresh air is a must. A little fan noise - a quirk I picked up from my ex - and lots of pillows. I prefer blankets to quilts. And I always stick my foot out from under the blankets. I think it helps to regulate body heat.

But you know what I really love the most.

The cool side of the pillow.

Boy, did I think I was clever when I thought up the name of this blog. It actually stuck with me all through the night and well into the morning. Now I am wondering if the parallel between the title and Dark Side of the Moon will be lost.

Sleeping. Bed. Night. Moon. Pink Floyd.

Maybe not such a clever title.

Anyhow, back to my pillow.

You know when you flip the pillow and rest your cheek on the chilly fabric. That's my favourite. There's something incredibly reassuring about that feeling for me. Wish I could pinpoint exactly why. Probably has something to do with being a child, but I reckon I'm not the only one who relishes the pillow flip.

Perhaps it's a small and insignificant thing to be grateful for, but aren't those the greatest things to ruminate over?

Funny thing, I just (as in right this very second) consulted Dr. Googles on this business and apparently the Family Guy has felt it worthy enough for a mocking. Now I know I'm not alone.

Restlessness

Every once in awhile I get this this nagging feel of uneasiness. Restlessness. Not being sure if I want to sit, stand, dance, walk, laugh, cry or sit like a blob and do nothing. Chances are, I'll do the later. Mostly because it's almost eleven at night and the town went to bed four hours ago. It isn't safe to go for a walk. A bear might eat me. Or a cougar. These aren't real fears. Just excuses.

These bouts of restlessness bring with it the ability to make me uncomfortable in my own skin. This happens once in awhile. I look in the mirror and am not too sure I'm pro the girl looking back at me. All I see are cons.

Don't get me wrong, I love myself, I'm relatively happy, life is fine, I'm okay and blah, blah, blah. Do not jump to any 'oh, she must be depressed' conclusions. Not everything is so dramatic. Actually, most things aren't.

Hormones. Can I blame them? It feels like a cop out.

Whenever these moods creep up on me, I end up disenchanted. With life, myself, writing, where I'm going to be in five years. The last year was a roller coaster ride, and not in the good way. The valleys out numbered the peaks about two to one. Some days, three to one. Then again, it's all perspective, isn't it? Through it all, I kept myself together. I reasoned. I kept a smile in place.

For the most part, I remain positive, looking to the bright side, being thankful, and walking around with the knowing smirk of a person who has most of it, if not it all, figured out. For the most part, see, that's the key. We cannot be positive, upbeat, happy, go-lucky, things are coming up roses people every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every...you get the point. It's just not humanly possible. Not without drugs, at least. And, frankly, it's annoying.

People are allowed to have bad days. Hell, people are allowed to have bad weeks. We are allowed to be in bad moods. Just don't let it take control and consume your whole being and smash apart your common sense or rationalization because...well, because that's bad. But it's almost as though, on my path to finding love and light and happiness, I forgot that there are downs. Oops.

In the end, the simple truth is, I feel sloth-like. And there is nothing wrong with a sloth. Actually, on any normal day, I'd embrace being sloth-like. I mean, those guys get to eat and sleep a lot, like up to twenty hours a day. Not to mention they only have three toes and are the slowest moving creatures on earth, so slow and sedentary algae actually grows on their fur. I mean, come on. How cool are these mammals.

Now I feel bad for comparing myself to these beings in a negative fashion.

The anxiousness is worse than thinking I look terrible or being agitated with everything I come in contact with. Sitting, bouncing my knee, and trying to think of a way to bring myself out of this state is most frustrating. Nothing really helps. Except, sleep. (See, sloth-like) And maybe cake. It's touch and go in these scenarios because I might end up feel like an even chubbier bunny after divulging in a cakey goodness with icing and some sort of jammy filling.

That said, I haven't had cake in like two months.

Oh, I think I just figured out what the problem is.

And here's a baby sloth, just because: