Just Keep Moving

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.

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