Crazy in the Face
So, in mid 2004 Graeme turned to me in the middle of the night and said “WILL. YOU. SHUT. UP?”
That was the start of an epic adventure I would like to call ‘I = Crazy’.
As a child I sleep walked occasionally, but nothing that caused any real alarm, perfectly common. I periodically ground my teeth down to dust, but who doesn’t right? I would sometimes wake up with raw skin where I’d scratched and scratched at myself until I bled. But, you know, right?
The resurgence started with teeth grinding and scratching. Some nights I considered wearing gloves to bed but I get so freakin’ hot anyway, I think I might have melted into a puddle of red hair dye and residual carcinogens. After some time of constant teeth gnashing, it sort of went away, or Graeme just lost the will to live – who could say?
The next stage was back in Australia, visiting my mum in Adelaide. I think it started with me trying to hurl myself against a wall repeatedly whilst shrieking in terror. I thought it might be stress from being back in Adelaide, maybe allergies to the stupid dog? (Note, I like dogs but this dog is stupid, it’s not me, it’s him).
But when we got back to Melbourne I proceeded to the next stage of mental, the one that’s stayed with me ever since. It is the sit bolt upright and say stupid things stage…
The first time? BOLT UPRIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT announcing to the world…
“Good heavens! We appear to be running low on chutney!”
And so it went on. (Insert Benny Hill music here). Bolt! “GRAAAEME. Would you give me the music please? God, for the CHOIR of course. (Mutter mutter mutter)’. Sleep.
Graeme awakes to me patting the bed covers around him. “What are you doing?” Me: “I am just looking to see if my mother was still with us”.
There was a brief period of violence where I punched Graeme in the face and one night he awoke to me gripping his scalp like a basketball and squeezing with all my might. I am proud to say it took both of his hands to pry my hand off.
Most of the time though, it’s just me sitting up and staring at the (imaginary) man in the corner of my room, the robber outside the window or the spiders running over the walls, not wanting to make a noise so they don’t notice me. I’ll get out of bed an hour after I’ve gone to bed, thinking it’s time to get up and I’ll have to stare at my clock for literally a minute to see why the numbers are wrong.
Anyway. The long and the short of it is, because I’m having fantastical conversations all the time, sitting up, moving around, or just screaming at Graeme to “look at the hilaaaaaaarious balloons” in the ceiling, I’m tired a lot. Add to that mix a job that periodically requires 5am starts, 15 hour days and a lot of fucking idiots and I figured maybe I should do something about it. I have barely slept this week for any time at all. I sort of sleep, but a tissue dropping in Latvia will wake me up and I’ll spaz out (and those Latvians are a sickly bunch). I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in forever (thusly, nor has Graeme) so a couple of months ago, I talked to my GP, who referred me onwards and upwards.
Cut to bed time on the 10th of December…
http://www.flickr.com/photos/buntonpeel/3098751981/in/photostream/ (more photos in the stream too!)
I get the results next Tuesday morning. Apparently they have a 95% success rate in being able to identify key issues, despite the unnatural setting. Maybe they can fix me. Maybe I’ll get some proper sleep. Maybe I’ll suddenly start enjoying hiking and being really positive about things saying “hey! no problem buddy, that was a really good try!” and “no worries, let’s go at your pace”.
Maybe.
Cross your fingers for me, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep.
