Fiona – my go-to symbol for: The Sleep of the Innocent.
Here’s something I don’t say much anymore: I was up all night watching bad Netflix and worrying. The Netflix show was about a dysfunctional family with an evil-seed son who reminded me (a little too much) of an ex-boyfriend. He dies in the end.(the character, not my ex-boyfriend) and the worries – oh never mind. Worries are always more doom-laden at three AM, right?
In the show, the siblings (who had a fair amount to anesthetize) were always running into kitchens late at night, grabbing bottles of stale bourbon out of the recesses of supply cupboards and knocking back fingers-full of liquid courage. Do people actually do that?
In the middle of the night, it looked kind of delicious, but I know I hate the taste of liquor and the characters (who where perpetually wet and wild-eyed) performed convincing stage shudders to indicate they were medicating and not enjoying the treatment.
I have become a good sleeper. That’s also something I am not used to saying. When I was drinking, I’d pass out most nights (often fully clothed and shod), wake when my blood sugar dropped and rise like a vampire to get some water, put on pajamas and sweep the front porch or alphabetize cans in the pantry.
Lauren after a few toddies, sleeping perilously close to a flatulent Fi’s tail end…
I kind of miss my frantic energy. Although I do not miss the way I feel this morning: scratchy-eyed and jet lagged, like I’ve stumbled off a plane and into the customs queue at Heathrow…
The NIH says, “Alcohol consumption can induce sleep disorders by disrupting the sequence and duration of sleep states and by altering total sleep time as well as the time required to fall asleep.” I’d like to add that wearing four inch Manolo’ s to bed can also disrupt sleep…
I’ve said a number of times, that my favorite part about being sober is the morning. One of my least favorite parts about being a drunk was the insomnia. The witching hours when you’re coming down, and thinking about what you’ve done and you’re staring at a black ceiling and you’ve got an all consuming itch to scrub the tub, write in a journal, sweep the porch. Bring order to the chaos…
