And Then There Was… Slightly More Efficient Sleep

That's about as good as it gets these days.

Truth: The last few weeks have been terrifically difficult.

When the good doc told me I would need to sleep deprive myself further--in order to sleep better--she wasn't kidding.  At the time, I wasn't thrilled to begin this sleep schedule a few days before Christmas.  I wanted to enjoy the holidays, not slog through them in a zombie haze.  However, with the way the holidays fell, I only had to work one day per week for two weeks.  This was a blessing.

I've been a functional insomniac for nearly six years.  Despite every doctor I've seen telling me things would get worse before they improved, I still scoffed at their words.  How much worse could it get?

Oh, friends.  It can get worse.

But let's start with the good news:  At my appointment last week, I had improved my "sleep efficiency" by a great enough percentage that the doc granted me a 15-minute increase to my sleep schedule.  This means I now get to crawl into bed each night at 11:15 as opposed to 11:30.  It may seem insignificant to you, but it took all I had not to burst into tears of joy when this was announced.

It is so difficult to not go to bed when you are beyond exhausted.  To put the kids to bed, look at the clock, and realize you still have, at a minimum, THREE MORE HOURS until you get to join them in slumber.  It feels horrifically unfair.  It goes against everything my body is shouting at me (You're tired! Go to sleep!  Why are you up?!?).

The dreaded daily sleep log - to track my sleep "efficiency."

What else is there to do, though?  I've tried it all, and now will try this.

And, by the way, the only reason my sleep efficiency has improved is because I am not allowed to go to bed or get up when I want to.  Pre-sleep schedule I was in bed for an average of 9 hours a night, only sleeping about 6.  Currently, I am allowed to be in bed for 7.25 hours per night, and am sleeping less than 6.

So I am actually getting less sleep now than I was when I began this treatment.  But it's more efficient.

It sounds terrible, and it is.

There have been days where I can't get behind the wheel.  I am so tired I don't trust my reaction time.  I tell Vinny to stop me if I try to leave, because 10 minutes after I decide I am in no shape to drive, I will have forgotten that I ever had that thought and will try to leave.

Yes, that's another really fun part of sleep deprivation.  I am suffering from a serious case of Can't Remember Shit (CRS).  I've experienced CRS in the past, most severely during my pregnancies.  But this is worse than that.  This is like having absolutely no short-term memory whatsoever.  Vinny vacillates between finding it hilarious, annoying, and concerning.  I think. It's hard to remember…

So all of this to say that progress is slow.  Yes, there is progress.  I cling to the tiny bits of progress because without them I would be even more of a crazy mess by now.

What is shifting?  Well, when I go to bed I fall asleep much faster, almost every night.  I stay asleep for longer stretches, sometimes until 5am.  This is major.  Sophie was sick for a stretch  after Christmas, waking me up each morning around 5:30, and that has continued to be an off-and-on trend, enough so that when she doesn't wake me up at that time my body decides to do it anyways.

I am getting, on average, about 5.5 hours of sleep per night right now.  It's not ideal, at all, but it is "better" sleep.

For the foreseeable future, I will continue to slog through my days in a zombie haze.  I apologize if we've spoken, hung out, emailed, or otherwise communicated in any way, and then I had absolutely no recall of it later.  I swear I am not ignoring you or failing to pay attention to what you say.  I am failing to remember it later, and it's frustrating, embarrassing, and, hopefully, not going to be an issue much longer.  I have so appreciated everyone's patience and kind words through this.  Thank you, thank you.

"You Need to Sleep Deprive Yourself"

Trust me, these are not the words an already sleep deprived person wants to hear (also, apologies… this is the most convoluted post I’ve ever shared—and I’m too tired to make it more sensible). 

For those of you that don’t know, I’ve been struggling with severe insomnia for nearly six years.  I was never a great sleeper to begin with, but when I became pregnant with Eli things went off the rails, never to return.

For awhile it was easy to justify: back-to-back pregnancies, a Sophie that wouldn’t sleep, a body that was out of whack once Sophie did finally begin to sleep.  It wasn’t until a year or so after Sophie started sleeping through the night that I truly began to wonder if I would ever sleep normally again.

There were many stages during this deepening awareness that, yes, I have a sleep disorder.  Frustration was the longest stage.  When you are so tired you can barely function and still cannot manage to stay asleep for longer than three hours at a stretch, well, it’s hard not to go bat-shit crazy.

These days, I am resigned to the whole thing.  When I finally caved earlier this year and asked my primary doctor for a prescribed sleep aid, it felt like total defeat.  I despise taking medications and figured it would do little to help me in the long run.

Four different prescriptions later I am taking a medication that does help the situation, a little.  After that initial visit, my primary care doctor was wise enough to schedule, without asking me, an appointment with a sleep specialist.  You know, cause there was a FOUR-MONTH wait to get in to see him and she figured I might find some use in it.  I shrugged, hoping the sleep meds would help enough to get me back on track so I could cancel the appointment before it rolled around.  Not sure where this optimism comes from... 

Four months later, the sleep specialist told me that staying on sleep aids forever wasn’t the best option, but I could do that if I wanted to.  Um, no.  After ruling out sleep apnea and a host of other sleep-related disorders, his next suggestion was to see a sleep psychologist.  I had no idea what this would entail.  His explanation: It’s going to be hard, and things will get worse for awhile, but nearly everyone has success going this route. 

Vague, but what the hell… I’m in.

To give you an idea of the timeline here, I went to see my primary care doctor in May, finally got the sleep aid I wanted (after having to guinea pig three others) in July, saw the sleep specialist in October, and had my first visit with the sleep psychologist at the beginning November.

Insurance snafus kept me from having my first follow-up appointment with the current doc for nearly two months, until this past Monday.

It’s a good thing I’m not exhausted and desperate for sleep.  Oh, wait…

So finally, this highly anticipated appointment rolls around. 

It takes all of 10 minutes and goes something like this:

Doc: From your sleep logs, it looks like on your best nights of sleep you get a little over six hours of sleep.

Me: That sounds about right.

Doc: But you’re often in bed for 9 or more hours.

Me: That sounds about right.

Doc: That’s a problem. 

Me: …

Doc: When you’re in bed that long and not asleep, and doing things like reading or drawing before you go to sleep, your body doesn’t associate your bed with sleeping.

Me: Okay. 

Doc: What time do you want to get up in the morning?

Me: Well, in a perfect world I’d never get out of bed before 8am.

Doc: No, you need to get up before your kids wake you up.  When would that be?

Me: Uh, I have two small kids.  There is no set wake-up time.  Right now it’s anywhere between 6:45 – 7:30, if I’m lucky.  Eli gets on jags where he wakes up before 6.

Doc: So, 6:30?

Me: I don’t want to get up at 6:30.

Now she’s getting visibly annoyed with me.  I shut it.

Doc: We need to figure out your wake-up time, so we can figure out your bedtime. 

Me: Okay.  If I wake up at 6:30?

Doc: Your bedtime would be 11:30.

Me: Oh… so 7:00 would make my bedtime-

Doc: Midnight.

I used to be a night owl.  Not anymore.  Most nights I’m in bed by 10:30, 11 at the latest.  I need to cash out in bed.  To rest, if not sleep.

Me: Well, I guess I’ll take the 6:30 wake-up.

Doc: Right now you rarely sleep for more than 6 hours per night.  So you shouldn’t be in bed much longer than that.  You need to sleep deprive yourself so your body knows that going to bed means sleep and nothing else.  You need to make yourself so tired that your body will learn to sleep during that time because it’s the only time it’s going to get.

DID THIS WOMAN JUST TELL ME TO MAKE MYSELF MORE TIRED?  What kind of operation was this?  Was there a hidden camera somewhere?  Were they trying to make me go off my rocker?  My deer-in-the-headlights look and lack of response must have signaled consent on my part, because she kept going.

Doc: It’s not going to be easy.  You’re going to feel worse for awhile.  But you’ve been sleep deprived for so long that it shouldn’t affect the way you function too much.  If it does, let me know.  But you should be fine.

Me: …

And that was pretty much the appointment.  I’ve waited seven months for someone to spell out something that feels, quite honestly, very basic, although very torture-like.

I came home equipped with more sleep logs, very specific instructions on what I MAY NOT DO in my bed, and both a sense of relief and dread.  Whenever there’s a plan, something else I can try, a new path, I feel relief because it means I haven’t actually tried everything and there is hope that things might improve.  However, this stay-up-late, don’t nap, and get-up-early plan was daunting.  I’m so tired already.  How was less rest going to help me?

I can’t tell you yet whether it’s helping me or not.  Now that my mind knows there is a schedule and I only have limited time to sleep, my nights have once again become quite restless.  Since my days start earlier and end later I feel like each day is its own marathon.  Around 4:30 in the afternoon, when I hit the worst slump of fatigue, all I can think is: Fuck!  I still have to be awake for SEVEN MORE HOURS.  How am I supposed to do that?  But then I do. 

And there’s this: Waking up before everyone in my house is really quite wonderful.  It would be even better if I could sneak downstairs and actually start my day without waking anyone (we live in an old, creaky-ass house, and although Eli could sleep through an air-horn in his room in the evening, in the morning hours he is the lightest little sleeper).  I have been instructed to get up IMMEDIATELY upon waking, so for now I’ve hauled my meditation cushion up to our room, and I’ll sit and catch up on news articles I wanted to read on my phone, dick around on Instagram, do yoga, meditate, and sometimes just sit in the quiet and listen to my family sleep. 

The doc was right that waking “on my own” (with an alarm, of course) versus being woken up by a needy little one would give my day a different start.  When Eli and/or Sophie stumble into our room I am ready and happy to greet them, instead of waving them off back to bed, grumbling about how I need more sleep.  If nothing else in this situation changes for the better, I am thankful for that little slice of improvement.

Where will I be in a couple weeks?  I have no idea, but I’ll keep you posted.  Also, for those of you suffering from insomnia I hope you find some useful advice in this post.  Maybe you can get this figured out much quicker than I have… waiting for medical advice you are desperate to receive isn’t a great feeling, to put it kindly.  I wish all of you many restful nights of slumber, and hope I can join you soon.

Stop Looking Around

Yes, yes.  It’s the New Year (a belated Happy New Year to you, readers).  A good time to reflect on what was and what lies ahead. 

I’ll admit, looking back wasn’t much fun.  When I think about where I was a year ago: super sleep deprived, struggling to get Sophie to nurse or drink fluids of any kind, struggling in my quest to get her to sleep through the night, well, it doesn’t flood me with warm memories.  In fact, when I think about the first year-and-a-half of Sophie’s life, I realize that there are large chunks of time missing from my memory. 

For instance, I honestly don’t remember Christmas 2011.  Sure, we had just arrived in Grand Rapids from Los Angeles on December 20^th, Vinny going into his hiatus, and we had all of four days to throw Christmas together.  And we did.  But other than a trip to Target to buy our fake Christmas tree and ornaments, and a trip to Toys R Us to buy the kids a play kitchen, I don’t remember any of it (And seriously, these are the things I do remember?  Why?).

So looking back… not so fun. 

On the other hand, I cannot remember the last time I felt so excited for a New Year to begin.  I have a good feeling about 2013.  Now that I am back to maybe ¼ brain function, am sleeping a bit better, and have these fleeting moments of clarity, I feel as though some of my long-dormant creativity is anxious to escape.  Couple that with some ambitious business ideas = color me happy. 

But in the midst of this looking forward and looking back and getting caught up in all that end of the year/beginning of the next, top-ten lists of everything under the sun whirlwind, I begin to feel overloaded.  Somehow, the end of the year does that to us.  We want a recap in case we missed anything, or forgot about something that happened earlier in the year when we weren’t paying attention, or we need a preview of what’s to come, to feel assured that yes, this next year is going to kick ass all over the place.

Maybe it will.  Maybe it won’t. 

Instead of overwhelming ourselves looking in every direction, why don’t we do as Garth used to say and “Live in the now, Man!” 

Seriously.  While I like to take time to reflect on what has been and what is to come, it is a hell of a lot harder to live in the moment with any kind of regularity. 

Have you tried it?  Really tried it?  As in, not flitting about from one to-do to the next, not sticking to your schedule day in and day out, not getting it all done before taking a minute to enjoy what you have right now?  To look at your loved ones and truly see them?  To be fully present with them? 

I’ve always struggled with being fully present in the moment, long before I was a parent.  Becoming a parent only exacerbated the situation.  Now there truly are a lot of things that need to be done each day, because, well, the kids can’t take care of themselves and if we don’t do it then there will be some problems.  So I find it even more challenging to be present as I tackle the day-to-day demands of parenting.   

It seems silly.  What is my favorite moment of any day?  The moment where I sit down with the kids and interact with them, with no other expectation in mind, no lurking “this needs to be done” thought creeping in.  When I am simply with them I am happiest, and so are they. 

You’d think this would be reinforcement enough to make it a constant and easily-remembered habit, and yet it’s not.  Quite often, it takes daily reminding to stop, slow down, and be with them. 

So go ahead, reflect, plot what’s to come, get excited about the myriad possibilities that any New Year brings.  But then remember to sit down, take a deep breath, and live in the now.

P.S. This post reminds me of my favorite fortune cookie fortune: Stop looking; happiness is right in front of you.  

I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain

It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant). 

In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight, something I had never done in the sixteen years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr. Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head on the pillow.  That is, until I became pregnant.

Hello, Pregnancy Brain.  Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).

Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would have gotten pregnant.  Sure enough, after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain, that’s all.”

So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that kid out all would return to normal.  I was wrong.  Not only has my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie. 

For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand this.  You won’t be able to fathom what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen? 

It goes on.  And on.  And on.

You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they take away your car keys and put you in a home.

The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses. 

No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.  I’m not talking tough, life-changing decisions.  I’m talking…

Vinny:  “Babe, do you want some cheese?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Babe?  Cheese?

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Umm, it’s a yes or no question?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . . I don’t know?”

It’s annoying, for everyone involved.  The questions are “easy,” and yet, my brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.  I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese. 

Every decision feels momentous.  Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!” regardless if it’s what I want or not.  At least it’s an answer.

Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt that Pregnancy Brain exists (go here).  They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up.  

As is often the case, I try to find something positive in the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished mental capacities.  Sure, it makes for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember most of those moments…

But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.  I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.  If it isn’t written down (and sometimes, even when it is), it doesn’t exist.  If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays, reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal level in our house.  But if I can’t…

So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday, anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know each other.  It’s not personal.  I promise.

A Need to Pause

Yes, it’s been awhile.  Again.

For lots of reasons, I haven’t been posting.  I’ve had good intentions.  I’ve started four or five posts with fervor and then… nothing. 

Initially I chalked it up to all the usual things, which I won’t bore you with, but if you have any procrastination “skills” I’m sure you could put together a list, too.

However, after some time passed I had to ask myself: Why haven’t I been writing?  What is really going on (beyond the usual BS excuses)?

When I take that quiet moment and ask myself what on the surface appears to be a very basic question, I am quite often bowled over by what rushes forth in the way of response.

I’ve been so bowled over that I haven’t written for some time now.  That in and of itself is quite striking because my usual response to any situation is to write about it.  I may not always share it, but it will undoubtedly be written about.

Lately, though, I’ve been stuck.  My thoughts have not moved down to my fingers and onto the page like they are so normally apt to do. 

In short, I’ve been in a mourning period. 

In mid-February, Sophie stopped breastfeeding altogether.  She was just over ten-months old, a respectable run some might say.  The fact that breastfeeding had been a struggle since she was just shy of four months old makes that ten month run seem downright amazing on some days.  However, on most other days it makes me sad.  When you want something for your child, when what you feel so strongly about is a struggle and cannot be accomplished, well, my tendency is to blame myself.

I know this is foolish.  I know she is fine.  She’s always been fine.  I’m the one who struggles with these things.

Beyond that, and I can only really talk about this in a peripheral sort of way, even now, is the fact that for about seven months I was really, really depressed. 

To feel so depressed in light of all these wonderful things happening in my life, at a time when the dream of finally moving into our first home was realized, a time when I could look at my beautiful and healthy and complete family and say, “we’re home,” was devastating to me.  How could I be depressed?  Why couldn’t I snap out of it?

Well, I didn’t.  Not for a long a time.  And it wasn’t something I could talk about when I was in the throes of it because it only made me feel worse, only made me feel like I should be able to wake up one day and “feel better.” 

Of course it’s not that simple.

I wasn’t prepared for the toll all this would take, either.  With Eli, I had a several-week period of “baby blues,” but between month three and four, when all the breastfeeding and sleeping and colic issues had smoothed out I started to feel somewhat “normal” again, finally felt some semblance of my former self. 

Sophie turned one last Friday.  Although I am finally emerging from a months-long fog of sleep deprivation and depression, I still don’t feel like myself, yet.  The difference now is I can see that I am making progress and this propels me forward, strengthens my attitude on a daily basis.  I know that one day, maybe soon, I will wake up and feel ever closer to… myself. 

It’s a difficult concept to explain to anyone that has never experienced it.

Sophie turning one has been a shock to my system.  Vinny and I were watching videos of her early months the other day, and in some ways it was as though I were seeing Sophie as a baby for the first time.  Truly seeing her.  I marveled over every coo, every little facial expression.

Then I cried.  A lot.

While I know at the end of the day she is fine, we’re all healthy and fine (thank goodness), and that I did the best job I could during her first year, it still pains me greatly that I wasn’t as present for her (and the rest of my family) as I wanted to be. 

Her first year is gone.  Gone.  And I feel like I am just now showing up to the party, just now being as present as I would like to be on a daily basis. 

When it hit me how much I missed, how much of her first year was spent on autopilot in an attempt to just get through the day, well, how can I not feel guilty about that?  I can never get those days back, no matter how much I long for them.  And I do.  So much.

So I’ve had to allow myself some time to be sad, to reflect, to think about what it means to be Milk Machine Mom.  When Sophie stopped breastfeeding I initially thought, “Well, I guess I need to find a new title.  I’m all dried up…”

But I’m not. 

I’m still here.  I’m still giving to my kids all day, every day.  Sure, in the early days I was a literal milk machine to those hungry babes.  But even once the boob juice stops running we are always giving and giving and giving to our children.  It’s what we do. 

And I’m back to it to the extent that I would like to be, finally.  I am grateful for a return of clarity, some occasional long-ish stretches of sleep (after three years of not sleeping through a night my body has needed to re-learn even this seemingly basic task, and it’s been slow going even on the best day), and most of all to a healthier mental state. 

During the worst of it, I had thought about closing up shop and shutting down the blog, but I still have words I would like to share with you all, and the comments and support I’ve gotten from so many of you propel me forward.  I’ve always thought of this space as a community for anyone who cares to join, and still think we always learn the most from each other.  So thank you for helping to create this little corner of the internet with which to share my experiences… I hope to share more with you, soon.

And Then...?

Sleep deprivation.

Yup, I’m in the thick of it now.  With Eli, weeks 5-8 postpartum were the worst, and I find myself in repeat mode with Sophie.  The first few weeks after you bring the baby home you seem to coast along on some kind of magical fuel.  You’re tired, sure, but manage to keep going and going and going…

Until you don’t. 

I knew it would be different in some ways this time around.  And it is.  Breastfeeding is going better, Sophie goes back to sleep easier than Eli did after night feedings, and these two things alone have saved me so much grief and frustration.

However, Eli is up and at ‘em most of the day and that makes any kind of daytime rest difficult.  Plus, Sophie’s been on a feeding rampage and one day will be full of feedings every one-to-two hours and then the next she’ll nap like a champ (but I won’t).

Were we not gearing up to move across the country in just over a week, I would be viewing this stage of exhaustion with more amusement.  Normally, I like an occasional bout of sleep deprivation.  No joke. 

There’s something about entering this phase of mental meltdown that I find fascinating.  In the past I’ve had this experience while working extremely long hours on film shoots.  At some point you cross the threshold into this altered state where you are still mostly functional, with now-and-again brain hiccups.  In college one of my friends referred to this state as “film trippin’.”

One of my favorite sleep deprived moments came while working on Jarhead.  I was working on location and we were putting in 16-17 hour days, and had been for a couple weeks.  We were filming at an empty military base and as I walked across the base to our office I randomly stopped and picked up a stick with a leaf on it and said, “Jeanine would like this” (Jeanine being one of my co-workers and very good friends). 

Of course I frightened Jeanine with my “gift,” and under normal circumstances I would not be inclined to pick up stray objects off the ground.  But in the moment it felt like the most natural thing in the world, and this is the part of sleep deprivation that I find fascinating.  Why wouldn’t I normally pick up sticks off the ground?  What made this action so normal (and pleasant) in this instance?  My intentions were good, even if the action was a little strange.  And so part of me wonders if in my “normal” state I am too rushed, too oblivious to the small details around me, blind to the small bits of beauty that sometimes lay at my feet. 

Regardless, this memory has become precious to me and always generates a good laugh when it is recalled.

When it comes to being sleep deprived with small children I have to admit there is much less to giggle over.  At least, not in the moment.  Later on you’ll find amusement at your mindless mishaps.

The other day as I was feeding Eli oatmeal I held the spoon up to him and asked, “Would you like more email?”  Thankfully he isn’t old enough to mock me.

I’m not sure what happens in your brain, what synapse misfires as you search for a word and then replace it with a completely unrelated one.  That, or at times your brain shuts down altogether.

“Hey, I’m going to…”

Hmm, going to what?  It’s amazing that you can launch into a sentence and completely forget what you were going to say four words into it.  I can’t tell you how many times this has happened: I start a sentence only to drift off and stare into space.

Where did the thought go?  It’s not like a bowl of ice-cream just floated in front of my face, or I noticed that our apartment is suddenly clean.  No, nothing like that.  But sleep deprivation is distraction at the highest level. 

My inability to pay attention to anything or anyone for more than four seconds (if it requires any type of thought or concentration) is embarrassing.  I forget what people say to me as they’re saying it.  I can’t recall details that should be difficult to forget.  I have newfound sympathy for anyone that struggles with an attention disorder, as it is ultimately very frustrating when you are trying to be “on it.”

I only wish I didn’t have to be.  “On it,” that is.  I wish I could sit here and simply enjoy my children without our daunting “to-do” list staring at me, our rooms full of belongings still waiting to be packed, my up-and-down ride of emotions as I flip from excited to devastated when it comes to our move.  In the throes of this sleep deprivation every emotion is amplified, every brain fart is annoying rather than amusing, and I sit here wishing for more sleep.

That time will come.  Part of me feels guilty for wishing my days away, wanting to be in that “land of more sleep” since I know this is our last baby.  I should savor every second.  Part of me feels wistful, wishing I could be infinitely amused during this latest bout of sleep deprivation.  Part of me feels…

Shit, I forgot.