Most people who have insomnia struggle at bedtime because it’s when they start to have dark feelings. They have been too
busy to dwell on shit during the day, so it’s at night when their chickens come home to roost. Guilt, remorse, regret, all unbidden, bubbles up to remind you that you are a subpar human being.
Don’t get me wrong, I have not been immune to spiralling into a pit o’ pity about my past life choices, from ‘borrowing’ liberal amounts of my sister’s much loved CKOne, to saying fuck in front of my very prim and proper Mother, and everything in between. Mostly I wish I was as nice as I would like to be. I wish I hadn’t bullied lispy Michelle for having a lisp by making her say her own name, even though it was ironic that her parents had given her a name that she would never be able to say, because of her lisp.
So, anyway. Yes, I do wallow and judge myself harshly and self analyse but, unlike you lot, I do it all through the day instead. All day, every day. At night, that’s when I come to life. When I’m alone with my thoughts, truly alone, no screens or people or books or sleep aiding podcasts, I reach the conclusion that I am actually a bloody brilliant human being.
I don’t know if the lack of sleep makes me delirious after a point or if I just need to be away from the call centre for more than six hours before my brain is back in full working order. What I do know is, I am never as optimistic, confident or dynamic as I am at 12 in the morning. Ambitious plans to become the next Jo Brand (who also has a fashion blog, a reoccurring role on Home and Away and a four album recording contract) seem like a piece of piss to bedtime Beki, she’s just great. I wish I could sleep better so that a bit of her can rub off on daytime Beki, she’s just knackered.
I’m going to start to Blog at Bedtime from now on. How can I possibly sleep when I have so much going for me? The world is my oyster. (And I have a cat on me)