Midnight Misery

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.

I have tried exercising and fresh air.  I have tried no screens.  I have tried baths.  I have tried mild sleeping supplements. I read almost every night.  I follow just about every textbook remedy to enhance sleep, to no avail.

The problem is not falling asleep.  It’s staying asleep.

Every night, somewhere between midnight and four, I am awake.  Usually, it’s 3 a.m.  Sometimes, it’s every hour on the hour.

As annoying as this habit is, the worst part about it is that the insomnia is usually accompanied by mild to moderate anxiety and/or irrational thought.

With regard to the latter, my middle-of-the-night irrationality will usually involve my kids in some way - some preposterous, detrimental scenario that I have created in my head, which when examined in the daylight will prove to be ridiculous.

Most of the time, however, my middle-of-the-night machinations are a turntable of the day’s events. Just as a vinyl record will spin continuously, so do the conversations of the previous day spin in my head.

While annoying, that, in itself, does not seem that bad.  The hell of the situation is that every seemingly stupid thing I said or did is on the highlight reel.  It’s my own personal Groundhog’s Day every night of my life.  Every over-the-top action or gesture is replayed.  This could include all the times I laughed just a little too loud.  All the quips that seemed so important to say at the time, but later proved to be extraneous and awkward.  Swear words that materialized out of nowhere and carelessly tossed into conversation. You get the idea.  Any and every time that I made myself look or sound stupid winds its way through the ticker-tape in my brain.

Yeah, I know how crazy that sounds.  I do.  But on the flip side, I do not know how to shut it off.  I wish I did.

The middle-of-the-night seems to be the time when I come face-to-face with every fear, insecurity, failure that I have successfully tucked away during the daylight hours.  It’s a Pandora’s Box of misery that I unleash on myself.

When I’m with it enough to recognize what’s happening, I pray.  I know that Satan has found my weak spot, my vulnerability, and is wreaking havoc. My go-to prayers have been Bible verses in those moments.  Psalm 23 was on repeat for a while, and Philippians 4:4-8 has also become a middle-of-the-night mantra to chase the demons away.

But I admit that I’m worn.  I don’t know why I’m such a basket case. Is it some unresolved sin? Is that why I’m plagued by myself? Is there something I haven’t confessed? Is there some soul business that I haven’t resolved? I don’t know.  I definitely don’t think it’s “Samuel Syndrome,” a case of me being awakened by God in the middle of the night, to which I am to respond, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

I do think that I have unresolved business.  I just can’t put a finger on what it is, exactly.  I suppose the most logical thing to do is ask.  God and I have plenty of opportunity to talk it over in the middle of the night.  That is as good a time as any to ask God to reveal whatever it is that I need to see/know.

He is truly the only One to whom I wish to give my midnight thoughts.  Even though there are a lot of people who show up in the middle of the night, crowding my thoughts, participating in my macabre tableau, I need to clear the room. At my core, I always try to do the right thing. I mean well. I try to put others first, and most importantly, I try to live my life in a way that makes Him proud to call me child.  The midnight pistol-whipping that I endure each night is not what He has in mind for me.  The question is why do I seem to think it’s what I deserve? There is work to be done.

Exposed

Writing is such a personal act.  When a person blogs, it’s a little like undressing in front of window with the shades open.  A blog has the guise of privacy, a 50/50 change of anonymity.  It doesn’t become public until someone looks, much like undressing in front of the window.  One doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing, unless s/he turns his/her head at just the right moment.  But when s/he does, the act of being exposed is embarrassing, blush-worthy.  We have allowed someone to see that which we have so fiercely protected up to that moment.  So why take the risk?

Why, indeed?  I can speak only for myself, and I blog because there is so much swirling inside - thoughts, emotions, memories, but mostly thoughts.  What I think can only be expressed like this.  I don’t feel comfortable sharing my thoughts, face-to-face with others.  Their non-verbals present the ultimate risk.  I don’t even care if they agree or disagree with me.  What I can’t tolerate is being mocked, feeling marginalized.  And so, I just put it all out here.

But what is “it”? Mostly, these are the big ideas on life that I have to work out.  Eleanor Roosevelt apparently said, “Great people discuss ideas, mediocre people discuss events, and small people discuss people.”  I try to spend most of my time on the first.  Commentary on the second usually leads to conflict, and third, well, that’s just a recipe for disaster.  It’s not really relevant anyway because people are works in progress.  They never stay the same.  What could be said one day about a particular person could be completely obsolete and irrelevant the next.  Why bother?

Once physiological and safety needs are satisfied, Maslow says that we all crave love/belonging, self-esteem, and self-actualization in that order.  I feel as though I am a member of the C team, since I have spent most of my life trying to get past number three on the list.  But haven’t we all?  Let’s be real.  Even before the digital age widened the gap in the search for love and belonging, I was clawing for it.

I have spent most of my life on the outside looking in.  At least, that’s the way it’s felt.  I suppose to the average observer, it seems as though I am comfortably inside the fence, and maybe I am, but certainly not comfortably.

I just want to belong, like really belong.  To me, that means I want someone to be looking for ME.  Waiting for me to arrive.  I want someone to find me intriguing, mysterious, captivating in a way that causes another to hang on my every word, breathless and surprised by what I will say next.  I want to be first, to be chosen first.  I want to be invited, and not because it’s obligatory to do so.  I want to come to someone’s mind first - like it can’t happen unless I am there, and I want to see joy and relief when I arrive.

Likewise, I want to be loved.  Oh, I know I am loved.  It’s a love that’s like a worn-in shoe, comfortable, predictable, consistent.  I’m not complaining about it; I want something deeper, more intense.  I want to be cherished, like I’m something special, unique, valuable.  There is something to be said for physical touch as well.  I’m not talking about touch that is a prelude to sex.  I’m not talking about the obligatory hug, expected between family members and friends.  I’m talking about organic physical touch, the touch that is frequent and follows the overflow of the heart - a touch that is at once protective in its fragility.

What would it be like to be treasured, much like the discovery of a surprising, fragile piece of sea glass from an ocean shore?

These are thoughts. They aren’t worth much, but I certainly would never share them with anyone in conversation.  I have removed a couple of layers, exposing what lies within.  As I pull the shade, I raise my eyes for one last glimpse, and I see you staring back at me.