Rock-a-Bye, Baby

Sometimes I write blogs I don't really want to write. And this generally happens because I let out some bit of information about me I'd just as soon you not know. I do it anyway, because I guess a blog is just as much for embarrassing admissions as reports of good news and pictures of the Hackensaw Boys.

Tonight's story comes from three places. Yes, three roads that converge right in the middle of Hinky Boulevard.

And I knew about this, knew it for a while, but only last night, when I was tired and exasperated and in a discussion with Mr M, did I just come out and admit it for the first time.

But let's get back to the roads.

The first road is Insomnia Street. I've told you all about this many times, how I hit a certain age a few years ago and sleep ceased to be a normal part of my life. I either go to bed and lie awake, eyes as wide open as that time Sylvester ate Tweety Bird, or I fall off to sleep for about an hour, wake back up, then proceed to toss and turn the rest of the night.

The second road is Anxiety Avenue. See, for a great deal of my youth, I suffered from anxiety attacks. And when I say anxiety attacks, I mean the kind that landed me in the emergency room on a regular basis. I didn't really know what they were at first, then I realized it, but it didn't stop them. They continued for a long time. Then, one day, and I swear, I don't even know how it happened, I learned to control them. I saw them coming, greeted them with a lot of conversation, and they turned around and went back to whence they came. Then they got a little pissed off at me and decided they just wouldn't come around at all. The sad thing is that recently they've missed me, and last year decided to pay me a surprise visit. And I seem to have forgotten now what I said to them to piss them off.

And the third road is This Part Isn't So Easy Lane. People who know me know this, I've told them, but I'm not sure I've ever mentioned it here. See, when I get particularly depressed, which has happened on and off in my years of living, I avoid getting in bed. I have always done this, from teen years on. I might sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, or sleep on the couch, or after buying the Poderosa, sleep in the Comfy Chair. Or I might just stay up all night. It's just something I've always done, I know it's weird, but sometimes I'm weird and that's the way it is.

When I landed in the emergency room last year after my anxiety attacks first decided to start visiting again, and I got $3000 worth of uninsured care, a pat on the head, an announcement that my liver was fabulous, and some advice to get professional help, I figured the cause of it all was my mom's being so sick all year. The worry, the travel, the frustration. Only Mom's better now, well, to a point, and the little anxiety shits are still hanging around. In fact, I think my biggest point of anxiety at the moment is that I can't recapture that tenacity that sent them away the first time.

I had another one Monday morning. I woke up around 5:45 sweating, heart beating out of my chest, hands numb, dizzy. "Oh, shit," I said, "Here it comes. Nothing's wrong. It's just anxiety. I'm fine. Really. I'm not kidding! I'm fucking fine!" But I laid there like a beached whale till it was time to get up, and it didn't really start to subside till I'd been at work for a couple of hours.

And so last night it was getting quite late and I was still up, and that's when the conversation with Mr M took place. He told me it was very late and I should be in bed, and I told him, as I tell him many times, how much I despise going to bed. He always finds this incredulous, how such a normal part of life could rile me so.

And so I started explaining how it wasn't normal for me at all, how going to bed when sleep was not one's friend was rather abnormal, and that's when the admission came out.

Now, I know I'm a mature woman, old enough and bright enough to drive a car, write checks, buy liquor and everything, but here it is. My admission? I'm actually afraid to go to bed.

I used to joke about it. I'm a night person. I just don't want to miss anything. Blah de blah. And blah.

I'm afraid to go to bed.

Well, if you thought Mr M was incredulous before, and you should, I just told you above, you should have been around for that little nugget of confession.

But Mr M knows all my ugliest secrets, so I just let it out. It's embarrassing, to be sure. And the thing is, I wish I could understand it. Because really, it's happening to me, and I don't think I understand it any more than Mr M did.

And here's the thing. When I go visit Mr M at Poderosa East, seems like all I do is sleep. Like this weekend. I fell asleep in the chair and had to be woken up for dinner. I nodded twice during the movie we watched - and really, who could sleep during a second viewing of "Robinson Crusoe on Mars?" - and had to be prodded by Mr M. Then I slept all night, got up early, took Milo outside, got on the couch, and slept some more.

When Mr M comes to my house, we'll play clarinets a while, then watch TV a while, where I always fall fast asleep. To be honest, so does Mr M, but then again, he's a guest in someone's home who's fast asleep, so what else is there to do?

And so, that's it. Hinky Boulevard.

Am I afraid of sleeping alone? No, I don't think so. I certainly like living alone, couldn't imagine it any other way. When I'm out on the road, in a hotel, I climb right in that bed and snooze away.

Does it have to do with thinking about the next day? Going to work, being stressed out? I don't know. If I'm home alone on a weekend, I stay up almost all night, but when I go to bed I'm certainly not all worked up about it. If it does have to do with work, I'm never thinking about it when hedging going to bed, other than, "Shit, I have to go to work tomorrow, and I don't want to go to bed."

I'm at a loss here.

Anyway, I did a little looking around today, and found out that I'm apparently not alone, because there seems to be something called clinophobia, which is, oh, my friends this is true, "the fear of going to bed." Explanations on this were fearing nightmares, bedwetting, or dying in one's sleep.

And I have to say, the thought of dying in someone else's company sure beats the hell out of dying alone, surrounded by clutter and in a t-shirt that usually has a stain on it.

In fact, the only thing worse, I guess, would be dying alone surrounded by clutter in a dirty t-shirt after wetting the bed. If that little disorder finds its way into my life, I won't be able to sleep at Mr M's either, and I'll traverse Hinky Boulevard and turn left onto the Flat Ass Crazy Highway.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, what is the worst thing your doggie could investigate on a walk?
- Runner-Up is the DeepFatFriar, with his "Sexy elastic garters and triple E's." Milo likes my socks and underwear, so that's a distinct possibility, should someone throw something of that ilk out the window.
- And this week's winner is Marla (marlamarla), with her "Smelly Easter Geese And Their Eggs." Yes, that would definitely creep me out.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!