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That’s more or less how I cope with everything. Grief? Move my feet, occupy my hands, dig down in the dirt so new life can grow. Fatigue? Make an epic to-do list and plow through it. Insane momentous goal? Break it down into manageable pieces, and conquer them one at a time. Insomnia?
Evidently, moving is not the solution.
Saturday night, I couldn’t sleep. I worked on relaxation breathing. I worked on finding a comfortable body position. I worked on adjusting the room temperature. I worked on restful visualizations. I worked. (Which is probably the LAST thing one should do when trying to get to sleep.) And still could not turn off my brain.
Sunday was a busy day, full of errands and remembering and digging in the dirt. I went out with friends that evening to see Wicked for the first time. (Which was FANTASTIC!) I came home in a cab, all by myself, and got a glimpse of what my life might have been like if I had escorted Mike out of my apartment 12 years ago, instead of sitting and glaring at him while he played with my puppy-dog. Being chauffeured solo across town in a fabulous red dress was nice. But once every 34 years is probably often enough for me.
Sunday night, I couldn’t sleep. Again.
Mount Laundry awaited me in the morning, as did five little faces and a gorgeous, sunshiny day. My energy was good. (The bags under my eyes were not.) And I actually managed to make some decent TI stroke progress, when I met my favourite lifeguard at the pool after work. Who needs sleep, right?
Monday night, I slept. Which appears to be the problem.
