Brace for impact and get the she’s-a-bad-girls a-ready: I can’t sleep at night without meds, and it pisses me off.

There are a number of things in my life which have made me admit that there’s better living through modern chemistry. (I should say here that any and all herbal remedies are about better living through classical chemistry, so hush up. It’s all about tinkering with that cascade of molecules in your brain; I would be psyched to drink a tea . . . if it worked. What, you think I haven’t tried it? Glad it works for you, you lucky thing.)

In my natural, untampered-with brain state, I can eventually indeed fall asleep by about 4 a.m.: I just don’t stay that way. I awake often, and spend long stretches either in that almost-asleep&dreaming state, or chasing the critter I call the “3 a.m. squirrel” (regardless of time of arrival), who nibbles you awake and runs about in your head, largely sowing a path of destruction.

After a while, I tell myself and El Rodento that the time-honored advice of just getting up is what’s happening, and I do; most often I get some writing done. My head and face are tingly, my muscles are throbbing, my eyes are dry–and everything else screams in unison that less than six hours=not enough sleep–

–but it doesn’t matter. I’ll stay up for at least an hour, and then by the time I can go back to bed, I’ve got maybe an hour before the alarm lets me out of hell, so I can wake up and (in this non-drug scenario) hide in a dark room trying not to puke from the migraine.

Thus the medication. Ah, modern chemistry . . .

My being pissed-off isn’t because Drugs Are Bad. Golly gee, everybody is supposed to be able to SLEEP, right? Easy as falling off that log you’re sawing. I feel like I’ve failed a course.

Even with meds, nothing is certain. I had an unusually brisk romp with the 3 a.m. squirrel this morning, concerning a somewhat complicated and highly detailed scenario starring a yet-unborn kitten and a subsequent trip to the ER. (Not directly involving said kitten–as I said, it was complicated.) I think things will go better if I scruff myself and get up as soon as the beady-eyed little buck-toothed fiend shows up. I do in fact have writing to do. The squirrel gives decent dictation.

Poor kitten. I’m sure it won’t do anything of the sort.

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