I never learned how to sleep well. When I was very young, I learned how to convincingly pretend I was asleep, which obviously means I couldn’t really be sleeping then, or much of anytime else. Sleeping, to me, was synonymous with not good surprises. Pretending to sleep either got me ignored or got me some early warning.
By now, I just expect the late nights, and dopey tired days. I figure if I’m awake, I must be getting sooo much more done. Well, sort of. The fatigue zone-out sets in, and I realize I’m spending a lot of time thinking about doing stuff instead of actually just doing it. I think about going to sleep quite awhile before it actually happens.
After nearly 15 years in this very safe house, in this very safe neighborhood, I still startle awake. I still sleep better — such as it is — with a little light on.
As with so many areas of my life, I’ve learned to adapt and to take advantage of the times when I actually have some good, restful sleep. Even so, my hubby can fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, literally. I envy him that.