Acrostic of an Insomniac
‘Insomnia means you regularly have problems sleeping. It usually gets better by changing your sleeping habits’ (NHS, 2023)
It’s that time again; when darkness takes over the sky, the meowing of cats punctuates the silence and insomniacs, like me, come out to pray. We pray for concrete eyelids, for restful legs, for heavy heads, in cosy beds preparing for sleep. When we’ve done all we can to assist its arrival, bathing in bubbles, taking some tablets, consuming the chamomile, meditating mindfully, and wording our worries with care, but still nothing’s promised. When, despite feeling we’re alone in our chronically awakened state, we’re existing in ‘sleepless cities’ collectively keeping LUSH and their array of ‘Sleepy’ products afloat. This is no comfort to me as I trudge up the stairs towards the whispering anxieties of the day that float heavily around my bedspace. Opening windows, wafting incense, and putting Howlite crystals in corners couldn’t deter these lingering thoughts from tormenting my tiredness. Slipping from my cosy cocoon of Oodieness, I steal a glance at my panic pit where my snoozing dog looks enviably snug. We both sigh; her in joy, me in resignation. All the preparations to this point go out the window with the Sandalwood, like they never happened. Bathtime calm is no more, the tablets are on strike, and the worries I committed to paper now play on repeat in my mind.
Now to climb into what should be the comfort of bed. The bed I now share with my husband, my westie, my traumas, rejections, anxieties, and obsessions. If only I could leave these at the door like a pair of uncomfortable shoes, ready to pick back up and put back on the next day. Poking a now disgruntled dog from her cosiness, I turn back the togs and slide into the coldness. I fluff up two pillows, lie down. Fidget, fidget, fidget, sit back up. Remove one pillow, lie back down. Fidget, fidget, sit back up. Dropping some lovely lavender on the wrists, temples, and Third Eye, I inhale this association to slumber in the hopes of my wiring winding down and flatly affirm ‘I can’t wait for the joy of sleep’. Who am I kidding? I plug in my iPhone, a blue light bedfellow and saboteur of sleep disrupting not just me, but a nation of nomophobic non-resters, and select a soundtrack for my sleeplessness. ‘Bedtime Songs’ to drown out the deafening sound of silence (on the forementioned playlist) and to distract the hypervigilant health and safety officer in my head protecting me from unknown threats. Don’t use devices in bed the ‘experts’ say.Easier said than done at 2.30am when your thoughts are yelling at you to stay awake in case those stalking shadows you see decide to steal you from this life.
‘Sleep story pleeease’ I chirp annoyingly to husband, aka Head of Headspace. He chuckles and hands me the phone to choose. Stories have always been a safe space to reside before the slog of sleep; from mum, in books, from an app, they attempt to distract a hyperactive mind. As a little bookworm, mum used to tell me off for being engrossed in fictional pages until the early hours, trying to catch me out when I became creative in my ways of novelling – under the covers with a torch, perched on the windowsill or curled like a mollusc under the landing light. Nowadays she’ll happily share that her encapsulation with DCI Grace and his crime solving capabilities keeps her awake until 2am. While she opts for stories about stalkers and serial killers, I scroll for soft and serene ones about ‘Moonlight Libraries’ and ‘Night Towns’ before settling on the ‘Midnight Laundrette’. I snuggle down into husband’s shoulder in the light of his iPad and close my eyes, his chest rising and falling gently. A feeling of calm, safety in the moments of slipping into sleep. That is until one loud snore and a device to the face startle me awake. ‘Sorrrry’ he grumbles, the Canadian tones of Steve the narrator still continuing in the background. I huffily settle on my side and once again, close my eyes. As the story hits white noise, the night loudens. One lonely bird squawks into darkness. A passing car speeds to an unknown destination. A neighbour coughs through our adjoining wall. Both husband and dog are sleeping soundly, their snores slowly increasing in volume and urgency. As the orchestra of snores rises, so too does my blood pressure and envy.
Of course, my wise mind knows it isn’t their fault, finding their descent into dreams one of relaxation not resignation. Sadly, this logical brain function clocked off bang on 10pm (otherwise known as ‘bedtime’) leaving me in the company of monkey mind, ironically irate at the cheekiness of those who don’t have to chase the serenity of shuteye. The passive aggressive sighing, expletives mouthed to the darkness of the room, the rage, like contained steam, seeping silently out. The frustration fuelled by self-pity is trapped in a bubble of its own making. If only I hadn’t eaten those Celebrations. If only I’d done more steps today. If only I’d taken my tablets sooner. If only I’d put more salt in the bath. If only I’d stayed off social media. If only, if only, if only. On the rare occasions when shuteye is achieved (normally after a 5k run, 10,000 step dog walk and two hours of housework), it’s never serene. Mere minutes after my brain, heartbeat, and breathing slow towards the promise of slumberland, stealthy shadows appear in the corners. Flowing figures dressed in black, creeping closer to my unaware body, reaching out towards me…JOLT! Heart battering my ribs, piercing in my chest, breaths so fast I can’t keep up. Am I dying? An assertive but sympathetic husband, ‘You’re OK, you’re OK. Shhh – breathe now – just breathe’. These terrors torment me, their horror haunts my head and heart. It’s just restless legs, nothing more the expert said. I wonder if he gets visions like these in his bed?
Meditation is the answer to everything. Got anxiety? Meditate. Got sadness? Meditate. Got rage? Meditate. Got distracted? Meditate. Got insomnia? Meditate. Got trauma? Meditate. So, against the stropping of my internal monkey, I fumble for my headphones in the bedside table clutter and give meditation a go. I head to the ‘Empower You’ app (as American as it sounds) and search. I settle on ‘Yoga Nidra for Sleep’ and press ‘Play’ You’ve tried this already, didn’t work. Why do you think it’ll work now? Seriously, we’ve done this one already. Never mind. The familiar plinky plonky music and seductive sound of Uma Dinsmore-Tuli fill my ears with background interjection of intermittent snores that startle and aggravate. ‘Breathe in…and out. Relax deeply into the space in your bed….’. SNORE! ‘Focus on the sound of my voice while the world falls away…’ SNORE!
Nope. Not working. THAT’S IT. Time to move. Before I end him. I shoot up, grab the phones from my ears and fling the duvet cover back, flailing my feet caught in its grasp. Huffing and puffing, I march to the spare room door, using my shoulder with force to prise it open, the beckoning silence on the other side. The smell of cold and must hit me as I put myself onto the springy mattress and stiff pillows. This is probably why we don’t have overnight guests. Scrolling through my phone, I select ‘Bedtime Songs’ on Spotify for the second time and hope for the best. Clicking ‘Play’ I settle next to a Stitch teddy I’ve had since sixth form, a well-travelled university comforter, first flat friend and now spare room occupant keeping me from fear of loneliness. ‘Oh, my darling I can’t stand to sleep alone…’ fills the silence alongside the thumping in my chest and whirling of my gut. The same unsafeness every time I’m alone in the dark with my past. I lie stiffly on the springs jumping at every creak, every whirr, every clank, every move made from my resting home. What was that? Someone’s here. Who was that? Someone’s near. The panic of imagined threats overwhelms my body and flips my eyelids into a state of alertness. Nope. I can’t. I sit up ‘grrring’ into the dark. Why can’t you just sleep by yourself? You’re a grown-up.
I might be a grown-up but my inability-to-sleep-alone demon mocks my inner feminist in the silence between wakings. Thought you were an independent woman? Can’t go to bed by yourself? Scared to sleep alone? In the glow of my phone light, I inhale deeply and pinch back the covers, getting back into our shared bed, the gentle sighs of a snoozing dog in the dark unaware of my nighttime activity. ‘Don’t use phones or devices before bed’ say the experts, but what else can you do when the world is asleep and you’re very much not? I lie facing away from husband, headphones in, no music playing. I start Googling. How to beat insomnia. What to do if you’re awake in the middle of the night. Free Insomnia apps. Insomnia advice. The results give the same old hacks I’ve already tried. Take a bath, use lavender oil, drink chamomile tea, don’t have caffeine after 12pm, read before bed, use magnesium spray, try meditation, bedtime yoga, exercise daily, no naps, no alcohol, do journalling, mindful colouring, move to a different room, mindfulness.I’m mindfully aware of the familiar rage rising, permeating from my cells that means flipping an arm outside of the 15-tog duvet. Advice from unknown people who are more-than-likely sleeping soundly in their beds as I fret. The guidance of one ‘sleep specialist’ revolves around my head. ‘Just try harder’ she confidently said. Surely this human requirement of resting and resetting is meant to be effortless? Drifting, floating, slowing, dropping, retiring, nodding off to sleep. I squeeze my eyes tight like a kid at Christmas. They fly open. It’s not happening. TarotTube videos until it gets light is the only option.
Amazing how slowly time snails when you’ve exhausted all video options. I yawn so wide my jaw hurts, eyes watering tears of frustration. The startings of dawn peek over the top of the curtain rail, still enveloped in darkness. 5.34am. Do I get up and begin the day? Or do I give it a last-ditch attempt at sleep with the help of a nice lady called Caitlin and her ‘Sweet Dreams Sleep Meditation’? Exactly two hours and fifty minutes until I’m supposed to be at my desk, bright faced and perky tongued ready to start the day, I decide to try once more. Eyelids weighted, they slip down across the emerging light and find a resting place. Husband rolls over and puts an arm across me pulling me into a warm hug. The snoring has quietened like a gentle purring in my ear, endearing instead of infuriating. So, this is how it feels to be safe and sleepy. Sigh.
‘Come on snoozer…time to wake up’. Bright grey light and starkly dressed trees invade my eye sockets, as does a plume of white fur and scent of morning dog breath. A soggy coal nose snuffles my face, demanding to climb into the warmth of the bed and my body. ‘Go ‘way dog!’, I grumble. She huffs in disgust and prods my nose with hers. ‘Ohh fine! Come on then!’. I relent, holding the covers for her to crawl under. She cwtches into my tummy and sighs happily. I curl around her and scrunch my eyes shut in an attempt to keep the day at bay despite willing the previous night away. As my muscles relax into the mattress, a jaunty alarm tone springs into life. Grrrrr! 8.15am. Grabbing my phone, I decisively press ‘Snooze’. I know it’s time to be a fully functioning adult worker…but not just yet.
Beth Rees is an autistic/ADHD creative writer, neurodiversity advocate and speaker from South Wales, currently working in disability and well-being. She recently attained her Masters in Creative Writing from the Open University and was also a student on a Stinging Fly creative non-fiction course. Her work has been featured in publications such as Happiful and Spellbinder and collaborative anthologies on neurodiversity such as Out of the Box, Rainbow Goddess, and Ableism and Neurodivergence in Creative Writing (publishing in 2025). Beth is on Instagram here and BlueSky here.