sleep – Page 4 – The View from a Drawbridge

Sleepy in Seattle

In Florida, my whole life revolved around the desperate pursuit of sleep, and I was lucky if I got 5 hours of it a day. I was in a perpetual mental fog, and it was affecting my health, both mental and physical. Granted, this probably was caused by my 13 years of working on the graveyard shift, coupled with my stress and anxiety about my financial situation and a general ennui, as it were, about my very existence.

Now that I’m on the opposite side of the country, I seem to have the opposite problem. Here in Seattle it’s like I’ve been sneezed on by Rip Van Winkle. If I didn’t have pesky responsibilities like dogs that require feeding and a job that for some reason insists on my attendance in exchange for a paycheck, I think I could easily sleep for 15 hours a day. If I hadn’t started typing this blog entry I could succumb to the Sandman right now. Mind you, it’s only 7 pm.

It’s not that I feel constantly exhausted here. Far from it. If I have something I want or need to do, once I shake off the heavy sodden blanket of slumber I can feel quite refreshed and infinitely perky. And yet place me in a horizontal position and I’m back in the Land of Nod almost instantly. I honestly don’t know what’s come over me. I do have a few theories, though.

At this point on the calendar, at this latitude, the sun sets around 5 pm and doesn’t rise again until around 7am. And when I say it sets, I mean, by God, it sets. It’s pitch black before you can glance, all mystified, at the clock. I generally assume it’s much later than it turns out to be. This level of confusion can be draining.
I’ve always loved to sleep in the rain, and find the sound of it comforting and hypnotic. Er… did I mention I’m in Seattle? ‘Nuff said.
I’m at a higher altitude. Science buffs, help me out here. How much thinner is the air? How much impact would that have on me?
Maybe it’s something in the water. It sure tastes better here.
It’s much cooler here, so when I am awake, I’m a lot more active. No, I’m not training for marathons. I’m still me, after all. But I’d like to think I’m earning some of this sleep.
I’ve noticed that my hair and finger nails are growing at a much faster rate here. I have no idea why that would be, but that must require energy, right? You try and grow hair. Not so easy, is it?
I feel a lot safer here than I did in Florida. Which is strange, because the crime rate seems to be through the roof. Maybe it’s because the general environment, both political and spiritual, is much more compatible with my lifelong philosophies.
I don’t really know anyone and I can’t afford to do much until I get out from under this crippling relocation debt, so I may as well sleep.
In spite of that debt, for the first time in many years, I can see a light at the end of the financial tunnel. It’s far, far away, but it’s there. So I’m much more content, much more relaxed.
I’m trying to keep my thermostat relatively low, so it’s hard to get out of my nice warm bed with my snuggly dogs and put my feet on these cold hardwood floors.
And finally, finally, I think I’m actually happy. That’s new, so I’ll have to research it and get back to you. But somehow it’s easier to relinquish consciousness when you go down smiling.

I could probably write a lot more, but I feel a nap coming on.

[Image credit: integratinghealth.net]

For much of the past 13 years I’ve worked graveyard shifts. Have I gotten used to it? No. It’s an unnatural state, and I hate it. All sorts of studies have proven that people who work graveyard shifts have a whole host of health issues and a much higher divorce rate. I read somewhere that we also have a 40% higher rate of traffic accidents as well. I know my cognition vastly improves when I get the opportunity to sleep at night like a normal person. Most of the time I’m in a mental fog, and my whole life revolves around the desperate pursuit of sleep.

So how have I survived this long? By living in a completely artificial world. To wake up, I need caffeine. To sleep, I often need Melatonin, although it gives me psychedelic dreams. In the heat of Florida, I rely on air conditioning and black out curtains. I rarely see the sun. My social life is almost entirely on line.

I try not to closely examine the prepared food that I often rely on, because I know if I ask myself when its ingredients were still alive, even the vegetables, I wouldn’t be able to say. That’s really scary if you think about it.

One day a week I work 16 hours. I have my regular Midnight to 8 am shift, then I go home and try to cram in 5 hours of sleep before going back to work from 4pm to midnight. I half expect to pass myself on the highway, rolling along in my metal and plastic and rubberized car that’s powered by a series of tiny explosions.

The day in question requires advanced planning, because I know I will be incapable of thought when it arrives. I lay out my clothes ahead of time so I can roll out of bed and right into them. I leave a huge note on my backpack that says, “Don’t forget your lunch!” because I don’t have time to eat at home, and if I forget to bring food to the drawbridge it isn’t as if I can run off on a lunch break. Heavily loaded barges might have a problem with that. I have to time my caffeine intake just perfectly so as to keep me awake when I need to be, while not preventing me from sleeping when I can. Even so, when hell day is finally over, I usually can’t sleep.

The beauty of working that day is I get the illusion of 3 days off in a row each week. Granted, it takes one of those days just to recover, but I get to sleep when it’s dark outside. What a luxury! But those days never fall on a weekend. I can’t remember the last time I had a weekend off. I’m not sure I’d know what to do with myself. If someone were trying to test me for a concussion and asked me what day it was, I’d fail miserably.

My life is so weird it could be transported to a space station and I probably wouldn’t know the difference. Artificial food, artificial air, artificial days, artificial nights. I find that extremely sad.

But maybe it makes me appreciate the things that the rest of you humans take for granted. The passage of time. Routine. Normalcy. Sunshine. Friends. Graveyard shift isn’t for sissies. But I have to admit the sunrises are spectacular.

[Image credit: pinterest.com]

Self-Care

For some reason it’s been my experience that most people are incapable of being kind to themselves. I’m no exception. I don’t know if it’s low self-worth or a time management issue, but we tend not to take care of ourselves the way we would others. Think about it. You’d hold a door open for a stranger before you’d hold a figurative door open for yourself, wouldn’t you? That’s a tragedy.

In this economy especially, it is a shame that we are not taking more opportunities to be kind to ourselves. It costs nothing or next to nothing to allow yourself to sleep in or take a bath instead of a shower. When’s the last time you put lotion on your feet or took a walk in a park? Go ahead, splurge on that higher-end ice cream that you love so much, just this once. The dishes can wait. Instead, indulge your desire to watch a few episodes of Star Trek. Or take your bike out of mothballs and go for a ride. What’s it going to hurt? Start taking yoga classes again. You know you loved it. Why did you ever stop?

When you’ve experienced trauma, loss, or illness it is especially important to treat yourself with decency and care. You are the one person you can count on to do that, so why deprive yourself of it? It is wonderful when others step up and are good to you, but you have identified the need and you are also capable of fulfilling it yourself. What’s holding you back?

So take an extra few minutes to dangle your feet in the pond or look up at the trees from a hammock or use that shower gel that you like so much. Light that candle. You love the smell. These are gifts you can only give yourself. And when you do, be sure and thank yourself, too. That’s another thing we often forget to do, but it’s common courtesy.

[Image credit: workingmommanifesto.com]

Zzzzzzzzz….

There’s nothing more luxurious, in my opinion, than a long nap on a rainy Saturday afternoon. I revel in turning off the phone, unhooking my bra, kicking off my shoes, putting on something made of flannel, and allowing the mattress to embrace me like a long lost lover. Pure bliss.

Rain is hypnotic. Ocean waves even more so. Put me in the vicinity of a beach and I’ll go down like a bag of wet cement.

I love to snooze so much that I don’t even have to wait for the rain, or for a Saturday afternoon. I’ve taken napping to a whole new level. If it were an Olympic sport, I’d get the gold medal for sure.

I often look back at my childhood and laugh. I cannot believe there was ever a time when I would cry when it was time for bed, but I would. I’d pitch a royal fit. Now I’m more apt to cry if I can’t sleep.

I think I was a dog in a previous life. I greatly admire the way they can go from hyper-hound mode and then heave a sigh and be completely relaxed in less than a second. And if I could sleep 18 hours a day like they do I would. My dogs encourage this. They love to snuggle with me as I sleep, and are thrilled when I do it, as long as it isn’t during their mealtimes. (And believe me when I tell you they have inner clocks of Swiss-like precision. They do not hesitate to politely cough in my ear and tap me on the shoulder when it’s time for their kibble, vile creatures that they are.)

As much as I complain about working the graveyard shift, one of the few advantages is that I can pretty much sleep any time during the day and no one gives me any guff about it. I have the perfect excuse. Now if I could just get people to stop mowing their lawns.

This is why I long for my own home-based business. I have no problem working 8, 10, even 12 hours a day. Just not consecutively. I hate being held to a schedule.

And then there’s the avoidance factor. Some people drink to escape. Others do drugs. I nap. Not only is it a much less expensive habit, but it’s much more socially acceptable.

I’d write more, but I feel a nap coming on.

(Image credit: animalfair.com)

Walkin’ After Midnight

When I was young I had a problem with sleepwalking. Sometimes I would sit straight up in bed and say something strange, lie back down again, and not remember anything about it in the morning.

Once, my mother walked into the kitchen and there I was, pushing against the counter with all my might. She asked me what I was doing and I said, “Help me bail! Help me bail!” She somehow convinced me to go back to bed, and again, I had no memory of it in the morning.

Probably the worst incident, though, was the time my mother and I took a trip and we were staying in a motel. I had gone to sleep in the nude, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the outdoor walkway, stark naked. It was late at night and no one was around, but the problem was I couldn’t remember our room number. So I started pounding on the nearest door, and this lady pulled her curtain aside. She was wearing a housecoat, had cold cream on her face and huge curlers in her hair. It was like she had popped right out of the 1950s, and her eyes were as big as pie plates. Needless to say that wasn’t my room, so I had no choice but to knock on the next door. Thank God it was the right one this time and I was able to bolt inside before being arrested for indecent exposure. That’s when my mother told me that when she was my age, she’d sometimes wake up outside of her house. At least I come by it honestly, I suppose.

After that I didn’t sleep walk for years. Well, not that I know of, anyway. Then when I was 21 I moved into a studio apartment and woke up sitting in the doorway of the closet in front of one of my open suitcases. I was throwing sweaters over my shoulder. I turned around and the room was covered in clothing. I have no idea why I was doing that, but I decided that maybe I should stop sleeping in the nude for a while.

That was the last time I ever walked in my sleep to my knowledge. I still occasionally talk in my sleep, though. It’s a little disconcerting to know there are moments when I am totally out of control. And it makes me wonder what I’ve done that I don’t know about. Fortunately, I’ve reached an age where it takes a heck of a lot to make me self-conscious or embarrassed.

(Picture Credit: sleep-walker (Tomáš Čech) · GitHub)

Mother Nature Trumps the River Goddess Every Time

It can be a heady experience being a bridgetender. After all, you are operating a piece of equipment that can weigh several million pounds if you work on one of the larger bridges. You also control the flow of marine, vehicular and pedestrian traffic. You can make people very late for work. If a boater is rude to you, you can make him paddle in circles for a while before opening the bridge for him. (Not that I’d ever do this, of course, but one hears stories. Cough.) Because of this power, a friend of mine jokingly refers to me as the “River Goddess.”

Last year, the five drawbridges in Northeast Florida that are managed by the Florida Department of Transportation opened 18,000 times. That’s a lot of people depending upon us to get where they’re going. And despite the fact that a lot of people assume we do nothing but sleep on the job (which infuriates me, because while I cannot speak for others, I have honestly NEVER slept on the job myself), the vast majority of us take bridgetending very seriously. Someone’s life could be at stake if we didn’t. Just Google “Drawbridge Death” some time, and you’ll see what I mean.

But just when you start to get a massive ego, the universe has a way of putting you in your place. For example, check out these photos that a coworker of mine took while on the job on June 26^th, 2009.

He was minding his own business when he saw this huge water spout going up the St. Johns River. There are actually several really good Youtube videos of this same water spout here, here, and here. This was a very bad day to be a bridgetender.

Fortunately this water spout, when it did hit land and turn into a tornado, somehow missed all the bridges and actually caused no injuries or fatalities to anyone in Jacksonville. But it really goes to show that Mother Nature can very easily slap you down if she wants to. If this River Goddess had been on duty that day and that water spout had decided to hang a sharp left, she would have been one very unfortunate statistic indeed.

Make up a Holiday Day

Yesterday was International Women’s Day and I should have written about it. I’m a bad blogger. Bad! I really should stay on top of these things. These types of holidays are prime opportunities to create awareness about various topics. I’m sure I could have spoken in depth about the fact that 90 percent of the women I have known have either been the victim of physical, sexual or emotional abuse at least once in their lives, and how that tells you a great deal about the violent yet silent world in which we live. Or I could have spoken about women who have achieved greatness, and women who do great things every day and yet fly completely under the radar. I could have told you one of a million stories about my mother, who was pretty amazing in her own right. But noooooo…I missed it completely. Sorry ladies.

But there are so many things in the world that are unsung or ignored. Here are some holidays that should exist, and for all I know, do exist but have been overlooked by me. Feel free to add more in the comments section below!

Picture credit: http://www.colourbox.com

International Cease Fire Day
Thanks for Doing the Dishes Day
Resist Road Rage Day
Make Waves Day
Expand Your Horizons Day
Give Shy People Some Space Day
International Day of Peace and Quiet
Make a Fool of Yourself Day
Work in Your Jammies Day
Think Outside the Box Day
Try New Food Day
Learn from Your Irritants Day
Foot Massage Day
Explore Another Religion Day
Sleep Late Day
Get Your Own Damned Coffee Day
Spoil Your Pet Day
No Electronics Day
Step Out of Your Comfort Zone Day
Stay in Your Comfort Zone and Make No Apologies Day
National Day of Nurturing
Jump in a Puddle Day
See the Sunrise Day
Hug a Perfect Stranger Day
Don’t Underestimate the Elderly Day
Cook a Meal for a Migrant Worker Day
Stop, Look, and Listen Day
Teach Someone Something Day
Learn Something New Day
Breakfast in Bed Day
Defy Gravity Day
Burp in Public Day
Don’t Spend Any Money Day
Compliment a Stranger Day
Focus on Yourself Day
Tip Extravagantly Day
Stay Home and Read a Book Day
International Appreciate a Blogger Day
Be Kind to Bridgetenders Day
Skinny Dipping Day
Change Your Mind Day
Day Trip Day

A Really Bad Day in the Life of a Bridgetender

1:00 – 5:00 am: Dog periodically wakes up, dry heaving, causing me to periodically wake up. He has gotten into the landlady’s compost heap again.

6:15 am: Alarm goes off. I sit up in a fog. Room spins. I feed dogs, one of whom is predictably not hungry. Let the dogs out, watch them head straight to compost heap. Too tired to protest, I go inside and make oatmeal. Drop can on toe. Break toe. Heavy can of stew, not light can of consommé. But fully awake now.

6:30 am: After weeping in agony, I realize I’m not sure toe is broken. But I am known for breaking foot bones without knowing it, so jury is still out. Tape up toe, put on shoe, hobble around kitchen making breakfast.

6:45 am: Get dressed in extremely unattractive uniform. Have breakfast. Spill hot oatmeal down front of shirt. Put bowl in sink with the mound of dishes already residing there. Change uniform. Muttering, attempt to get dogs back inside. They prefer company of compost heap. Cursing, hobble to far corner of yard, pick both dogs up bodily and carry them toward house. Step in hole created by dog. Fall flat on face in a fresh pile of doggy doo. Now ankle hurts. Same foot. Of course. Round up dogs, hobble into house, take off shoes and nasty uniform, take tape off toe, take shower and tape toe and change uniform again.

7:00 am: Leave house for 15 mile commute in rush hour traffic. Within mile of bridge, discover train parked on tracks. Take 2 mile detour. Cannot, but CANNOT be late! Departing bridgetender cannot leave until I arrive.

7:36 am: Limp up bridge, which has doubled in length overnight. If boat traffic is light, plan to get on internet and job hunt.

7:45 am: Arrive on bridge. Offgoing bridgetender assures me, a trifle too stridently, that all is working fine, just fine. Really. Everything is fine.

8:00 am: Offgoing bridgetender departs.

8:25 am: First bridge opening of the shift. Close gates to traffic. Push button to release locks so span can open. Nothing. Attempt to raise gates to let cars back though. Nothing. Extremely annoying gate alarm bell will not shut off. Call FDOT, shout over alarm bells to explain situation. Calls from everyone and his brother and copious amounts of paperwork ensue.

8:51 am: Workmen arrive on bridge. More paperwork. Attempts to do the exact same thing I’ve informed them I’ve already done come to no avail. Alarm still clanging away. Pedestrian knocks on door and suggests that we raise the gates so cars can come through. Slowly counting to ten in my mind, I politely explain that we would love to, but can’t. Pedestrian leaves.

9:15 am: Gates are manually raised, but traffic light will not turn to green. I stand on the sidewalk and flag traffic through with mixed results, and am treated to much cursing and rude gesticulations.

9:34 am: Gate alarms are turned off. Hallelujah. Small sense of sanity returns.

9:34 am to 11:30 am. Hobble around on sidewalk, trying to stay out from under foot as much head scratching by the workmen occurs.

11:30 am: Discover I’ve gotten a sunburn. Go back inside. To hell with being out from under foot.

11:30 am to 12:11 pm: As experts come and go and various people call for status updates, and each visit and call is logged in two places, I long for the day of job hunting that I had envisioned.

12:11 pm: Bridge fixed. Every boat on Eastern Seaboard now wants an opening.

12:37 pm: Workmen leave bridge. Between openings I use the bathroom and realize I’ve forgotten my lunch. Can’t leave the bridge.

2:15 pm: Driver pelts tenderhouse with eggs. Wishing he’d given me the eggs to eat instead, I attempt to wash windows with inadequate supplies.

3:00 pm: I am scheduled to mop floors, but think to myself, “Screw it,” and read a book instead.

3:45 pm: Relief bridgetender arrives. I inform her of my day. She is very critical of the way I did my job, especially in terms of cleaning tenderhouse. I count to ten once again. Then I assure her, a trifle too stridently, that all is working fine now, just fine. Really. Everything is fine.

4:00 pm: I limp back off the bridge to discover someone has let the air out of one of my tires. I call AAA.

5:20 pm: AAA arrives and confirms my suspicions and puts air in tire. I head home. I remember that I planned to make tuna casserole, but think to myself, “Screw it,” and go through the Popeye’s Chicken drive through instead.

5:45 pm: I remember I have to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy, and while there I get pain medication for foot.

6:10 pm: I arrive home late, and predictably there is poop-henge on the carpet, fallen pillars and all. Oh, and vomit. I let dogs out. They head straight for compost heap, and I scream, “NO!!!!” Sensing I’m on the ragged edge, they do an abrupt u-turn.

6:20 pm: Carpet cleaned and dogs fed, I eat my now cold chicken and fall into a deep coma-like state until the dogs wake me up at 8:00 pm needing to go out.

8:00 pm: Dogs head for compost heap. I scream, “NO!!!!” and they do an abrupt u-turn yet again as neighbor gives me the hairy eyeball. He has no idea the level of my self-restraint. Ushering the dogs inside, I barely miss the hole that I tripped in this morning.

8:20 pm: I treat my sunburn, take a pain pill, decide that toe is only sprained, not broken, put the can of stew on the lowest shelf in the pantry, give sink full of dirty dishes a passing glance, realize I’m out of uniforms for the next day thanks to the oatmeal and the dog poo, put in a load of laundry, and fall into a deep sleep full of frustration dreams.

10:00 pm: Dog wakes me up with his snoring. Being a dog is hard work. I put the wash in the dryer, then climb back into bed, pull dog close and fall back to sleep.

The Emotional Space Theory

Yup. Here comes another one of my theories that probably isn’t original with me. We often measure people by how we feel about them. We talk about how much we love this person or dislike that person. My theory is that there’s an entirely separate system of measurement which should be taken just as seriously—that of emotional space.

Some people just take up more emotional space in our lives than others do, and for the most part that’s not a good thing. Quite often you can measure how resistant you are to change, or how low your self-esteem is, by how much emotional space you allow people to take up in your life, often to your detriment.

For example, let’s say you have two brothers and you love them both equally. But one, Andy, just seems to have more in common with you. Andy is comfortable to be around. He “gets” you. He’s the person you go to for advice. You finish each others’ sentences. He is a positive force in your life. You love him to pieces, but he doesn’t take up much emotional space, and that’s the healthiest relationship you can possibly have with another person. That’s what you should strive for.

Your other brother, Leroy, on the other hand, just seems to suck the life out of you. When he calls you, it’s just as likely to be to bail him out of jail as it is to tell you happy birthday. He shows up intoxicated for Thanksgiving and makes an a** of himself. He’s always bringing drama into your life. You love Leroy, but he makes you worry. He makes you cry. He makes you shout. And he makes you feel guilty because when he leaves your house, you’re usually relieved. If ever you want to have a healthy relationship with Leroy, you need to find ways to reduce the amount of emotional space he takes up in your life. Because, you see, that is your choice, not his. He doesn’t get to decide. You do. My advice would be for you to start by reading the book Codependent No More by Melody Beattie.

The emotional space yardstick also works with people whom you dislike. For example, you really can’t stand your Aunt Lola. She’s Uncle Carson’s third wife, and why he bothered marrying an exotic dancer who is 50 years his junior you will never know, but there you have it. She’s now a part of the family. She doesn’t take up very much emotional space in your life, however, because they live 600 miles away, and you only run into them at the occasional wedding or family reunion. She looms much larger in your cousin’s life, because she is convinced that Lola is trying to get her written out of the will. While you can commiserate with your cousin, you’re not losing much sleep over the situation yourself.

But you also dislike your coworker, Dave, and he’s making your life a living hell. You lose quite a bit of sleep over Dave, as he undermines your work every chance he gets. You also are developing ulcers and a nervous twitch. You are pouring so much of your energy into the situation that you’re actually starting to undermine your own work. You might want to consider learning whatever lesson you’re supposed to learn from Dave, then gain some perspective, take disciplinary action if absolutely necessary, and move on to more productive obsessions.

Take a moment to think about those people whom you have allowed to take up the most emotional space in your life. Now ask yourself what would really happen if you reduced that emotional space to a more manageable size. How would you do that? And what would happen if you did? In what ways would your life improve? Only you can determine your boundaries, and only you can make those boundaries perfectly clear to those around you. You are the surveyor of your own life. Only you can determine what’s out of bounds.

Tag: sleep

What I Did for Like

So I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and thought, “Who does this? Have I completely lost my marbles?” I had agreed to meet a friend for breakfast. Waaaaaaaay on the other side of town. As in 25 miles through downtown Seattle rush-hour traffic. For eggs.

I thought of coming up with a lame excuse and going back to bed. But this is a friend who happens to be an airline pilot (my bff calls him my “flyboy”) and he rarely passes through Seattle. When he does it’s a high speed chase to catch up with him before he flies out again.

It’s simple, really. I value true friends much more than I used to. Relocating 3000 miles from home to a place where no one knows you will do that to you. Suddenly friendship, the thing you always had been surrounded by, the thing that defined you, is no longer something you can take for granted.

Breakfast with a friend is priceless. I might even have been persuaded to drive more than 25 miles for it. Maybe even 26. And the eggs were all the more delicious for the company.