I stopped writing when I stopped sleeping all night. Up until menopause I was the perfect sleeper, as soon as my head hit the pillow, unconscious until dawn or longer. I assumed this was my great luck, just like my perfect health. With the onset of this female condition that no one ever talks about, even when there are multiple aging women fanning themselves in the same meeting, I now wake up several times a night to flap my bed coverings, and unstick my sweaty body from where it was glued into the bed. Over the years, these symptoms have diminished (though not ended), but my brain has given up sleeping for eight hours in a row and I have entered the long twilight of insomniacs.
Then I lost my job and worry became a new excuse for sleeplessness. At the end of each fruitless day I detail all the things I had not done to better my situation and all the things I would surely do better the next day, and after hours of lists, I fall unconscious in disgust. Then I get a job which entails an early and late commute that I begrudge so much I never get to bed when I should, and when I do, there are still the thrice nightly time checks that I seemingly must do, just to prove the night is both terribly long and short. After awhile, I get used to living tired. Which leaves no room for inspiration. Or dictation of inspiration.
But I’m always trying to do better. Recently, I sought writing therapy with a workshop with Kim Stafford. There were two days of effortless words. Then nothing.
So this is me, writing about doing better. Right before I go to bed early, to try and break the chain.
