It happened in December. Suddenly, I couldn't sleep. I was an insomniac.
Such a chronic one that it started scaring my friends. Some asked me to count sheep, others asked me see a doctor. One advised me to get drunk and pass out.
The last one, actually, was the only plan that worked for me.
I blamed it on my job. The hours. The lack of hours. The timings. The lack of timing, rather.
It went on for three months. The constant tiredness. Nodding off in the bus, five minutes before the stop where I would have to get down. Then the long and painful nights, some of whom were used for constructive purposes; but mostly whittled away wondering what was wrong with me and how to fix it.
Then suddenly, towards the end of April, it all went back to normal. Eight hours a day. And everyday at that.
The results: Fell behind on my reading, fell behind on my to-watch list, couldn't run in the mornings anymore, got increasingly more bored in office, started waking up early, started getting to office early, bus rides became longer, train rides became insufferable, sounds were clearer and more deafening etc etc.
Today. I haven't slept yet.
The results: Went for a walk, started reading again (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), sat up and thought about writing about this, sat up and wrote about this, made myself breakfast, read the paper, didn't count sheep, finished watching a series that I had wanted to watch. Oh I don't know.
If those sheep and doctors had done any permanent damage to me, I wouldn't be writing this.
I can complain I guess. And I probably will also. But have to admit, being an insomniac is probably one of the best things that can happen to somebody. Imagine all the extra hours you get!
(Image courtesy: http://bioweb.uwlax.edu)