Those fortunate enough to have nights of deep uninterrupted sleep are a select group I have envied for a long time.
There was a time when I could be counted among such a group. My childhood and adolescent years brought nights of feather-quilt comfort and the security of knowing my parents and boxer dogs would fend off intruders. No major responsibility or care in the world. I don’t remember losing sleep over a boyfriend, upcoming exam, or the class bully.
As I moved through my early adulthood, those eight hours of slumber still came easily. Life was joyous and filled with anticipation: friends, achievements and future plans. Even the deaths of my favourite pets did not cause sleeplessness.
As approached my thirties, the loss of those closest in my wonderfully blessed existence began. Perhaps my smooth sleep has not been the same since my mother died. Remorse at not being around at the end has been unrelenting. My closest, most trusted friend had gone – forever changing the colour of my world.
Caring for little ones of course brings night disruptions, but these somehow seem natural and manageable.
Move forward to the sixth and seventh decades of life. Something strange, intrusive, downright exasperating happens. It’s called insomnia. Those night noises of others. The struggle to switch off thoughts – distressing or stimulating. That need to go to the bathroom.
Alcohol/no alcohol. Shutting down phones and TV. Keeping a sleep diary. Retiring late. Reducing liquids. Weighted blankets. Meditating and mindfulness. Melatonin capsules. None made a difference.
And then, a tip-off. Simple, free, available most days. I have finished with thoughts of prescription pills, pre-bed self-talk and psychologists.
Nature has come to my rescue.
Early morning light in the eyes for about twenty minutes. Repeated late afternoon. No sunnies. Combined with stretching and strengthening is even better.
Restless nights are now rare.
Sun, I salute you.
Burnside Writers Group 