But I'm Not Sleepy

Confession is good for the soul, much like oatmeal is good for heart health, so, let me confess: I am horrible at sleeping. The more I think about it, I've been this way all my life—and those who know me best can testify to it.

I realize that this sort of soul-baring may invite unsolicited diagnoses, but believe me when I say that's perfectly okay. I'm an open book open to any help. One oddity is God's pairing of my wife and me on the subject because I married a surefire gold medalist, should sleeping ever become an Olympic event.

For someone as much of an underachiever as myself, my wife's sleeping ability is nothing short of impressive. As far as I'm concerned, she's basically an unpaid professional. She sleeps like nobody's business. She does not play about her sleep. You can catch a beat-down if you infringe upon her pursuit of it.

It doesn't take much at all for her to fall asleep, and, shockingly (at least to me), she can then stay that way for 10 to 13 hours straight. Depending on what's going on that night, she might get up, gulp down some water from her coveted, gargantuan stainless steel Stanley tumbler, and then, I kid you not, go right back to sleep for another three or four hours. Her sleep prowess is impressive.

I am in the remedial class.

When I was a kid, I definitely felt that I was missing out on something whenever I had to go to sleep; and I was. My sister and I always had a bedtime, so it wasn't as if we could stay up into the wee hours all willy-nilly. And with few exceptions, that rule held even when we were out of town visiting family or had family friends over at our house.

My parents didn't care where we were or who was around. Their approach was, like they say in sports or business, “The standard is the standard.” Once your bedtime rolled around, you put on your PJs, distributed hugs and dap (meaning handshakes) to your older cousins, aunts, grandparents, or whoever else was around, and then off to bed you went, with your door closed, even as you could hear all the adults playing cards, arguing, and laughing.

But even long before all that, sleep seemed to elude me. My parents have myriad stories about me as a strong and inquisitive, maybe semi-sneaky, toddler and little boy, sporting a mini-afro and the chubbiest of cheeks, whose intensity was permanently set to 10. I had a lot of energy, and still do.

I have no problem diligently focusing on a task or tasks for extended periods of time, but it takes a lot for me to get tired and feel like I want or need to shut it down. My mom might deserve sainthood for not losing her mind dealing with a young son who, for the longest time, would only take 15-minute naps. I vividly remember, in ways that are funny now but certainly weren't enjoyable in the moment, how ironclad she was about emphasizing, “I can't make you go to sleep, but you BETTER not get up out of that bed until I tell you.”

As parents know, sometimes I did, in fact, eventually fall asleep and stay asleep longer than I'd intended. But other times, I'd stare at the ceiling, talk to myself, sing songs I’d made up, play with G.I. Joes I'd commandeered from the floor within arm's reach (remember, I couldn't get out of bed), or find something else to occupy myself.

All these decades later, even after draining days of pastoral work, teaching evening classes, running a bazillion errands, working out a lot, and doing my best impression of Mr. Fix-It around the house, I find myself still wide awake at 11:30pm and 2:30am, sometimes—but not always—after an earlier catnap. I'm watching reruns, reading, sending random -mails, working on articles like this one, grabbing something to eat (that's another issue: my eating habits are unconventional), ironing clothes, and washing dishes, at least before we started using the dishwasher more regularly. Oh, and I'll cook during those hours, too, if my meal-planning containers are running low.

This is a long way of admitting that I won't be able to sustain this forever. I hope God will help me cooperate. Again, any insight is welcome. According to my wife, it's as if I don't really "get started" some days until around midnight. And from there, I kick into overdrive while she's long gone deep into the throes of REM sleep.

And there's some truth to that, which I can't fully explain. I thrive in quiet, and at night—or, more specifically, overnight—when it gets quiet, both outside and inside. Working through projects and ideas, I talk to myself, much as I did when I was little and sentenced to naptime. And I talk to God. He's always up and willing to entertain my musings.

I've come to accept that I'm a short sleeper. I just am, and may always be. Only God knows. Although I'm not sleep-deprived, I'm an odd cocktail of insomnia and being highly nocturnal. Still, I recognize that I need to do better about establishing a consistent bedtime.

It seems that, throughout my life, I've been vehemently protesting at one point or another, “But I'm not sleepy!” Perhaps more than most, I can relate to kids when they get emotional or defiant about bedtime. Thankfully, I've graduated to taking naps. They are my jam nowadays, so that's progress. It really is.

I'm learning to be okay with certain aspects of my sleep shenanigans while, at the same time, committing to changes that can only help my cause. Like so much else in life, it's a work in progress—a work under construction. I just have to keep gracefully slogging my way through and let the chips fall where they may.