On sleep, or a lack thereof

I'm a procrastinator. I have always been this. I have tried to break the cycle, but it is so hard. Everything else becomes so much more interesting when I have a project to do. Even this post is a form of procrastination as I have writing projects sitting on my desk staring me down. They lurk in my subconscious, quietly whispering "come to us; come work on us." And I ignore them, kind of. The guilt, though, ratchets up, the deadline looms closer, and I realize that, once again, I'm staring an all-nighter in the face. For the third time that week.

I thought I would be done with this kind of thing after grad school, or after being a student at least. But this isn't the case. Instead, I fall into the habit of put it off, work all night, see the sun rise, go to bed, sleep until 2:00 pm and then get up and start the cycle over. Sometimes bed isn't even an option. I have to push through, suck it up, and realize that this is completely a self-inflicted wound.

Perhaps this is part of why I wanted to work from home and worked so hard to be able to do it. I can keep weird hours only known to insomniacs, programmers, gamers, writers and students. There is a reason we are socially awkward. It's those weird hours. They do something to us.

The dark circles under my eyes are a permanent fixture. Sleep deprivation combined with allergies make me look bruised. I also feel bruised. There is a feeling in the body when it is running on no sleep. Everything aches, my skin hurts, I feel like a shell of myself. Sounds function differently, a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. My brain processes slower, sluggish. Dexterity fails. When I was younger, I would run into things or simply fall over because of this. Then I really was bruised. I would lose conversations within my head and start in the middle of one, completely confusing everyone around me.  The irritability kicks in, and I am all sharp around the edges. Brittle in body and demeanor.

I remember my freshman year of college when I lost almost a full day. I was several days without sleep, and I kept finding evidence of things I had done but had no memory of. I found rice, completely cooked, in my microwave and had no memory of making it. A movie half watched on the computer, and no memory of it. I called people asking them if we had been together or if we had talked, only to have it confirmed that we had, in fact, spent time together. It was terrifying. A friend wondered if I had been given something. I hadn't. It was purely sleep deprivation. It was a terrifying realization.

I can understand this as a form of torture. Keep people awake long enough and their defenses quickly begin to erode. Three days in, and the processes aren't functioning. A week? I'm not even sure; I've never made it that long. The body, though, hates it and fights to sleep. Black spots--not sleep--just holes in the memory begin to form. One thought doesn't coherently connect to the other. Admit to whatever those questioning wanted, whether true or not.

Eventually I collect myself for a small change in the schedule, but I eventually slip back into the pattern. I don't even know if it is so much that I don't want to do the work as much as it is an inexplicable fear of sleep. If I go to sleep I give up control. I surrender the small amount of power I have, and weirdly that terrifies me. I'm not scared of the dark; I'm simply scared of the dreams I have--vivid, alive dreams that suck me in completely. I don't dream these things as much as I live them.

And so, I live with the bruises, both obvious and painting my skin and the hidden, aching pain.