Yesterday was bad.
Like, really bad.
I can handle the crying at the drop of a hat a whole lot better than I can handle not sleeping. For two nights I ran in the insomnia marathon. The one snatch of sleep I did catch was filled with a super-creepy dream about a doll. If there is one thing I truly loathe, it’s dolls. (Yes, I played with Barbies and stuff. I’m talking about the antique, eyes-follow-you-around-the-room kind).
Combine the sleeplessness with the sudden, constant restlessness in my legs and the continued “whomp, whomp, whomp” of the brain zaps. Add a dash of irritation because of the heat. Stir and you get a VERY UPSET Marie.
As I lay on the couch yesterday, just a little bit of hopelessness crept in. And I wallowed in it.
“This will never end.”
“I hate my life.”
“Why does central air cost an arm, leg and the soul of your unborn child?”
“I’m going to sue Eli-Lilly.” (The makers of Cymbalta).
I didn’t mean to wallow. Pessimism is my default setting and my brain is quite mushy. It took me awhile to remember that I had to consciously choose hope.
Onto Facebook I went and messaged the first people I could think of. Asked for their prayer. Then I called my mom and talked with her about taking Benadryl along with a natural sleep aid. (I wanted to be KNOCKED OUT). Turned on “That 70s Show” on Netlfix and allowed the antics of Eric Forman and his friends to make me laugh. One by one, I got responses to my S.O.S Facebook message – and each one boosted me. Prayers, encouragement, Scripture passages. Took the first Benadryl pill at 6:30 p.m. while eating a delicious (and free!) sandwich from Caruso’s. When I was still awake at 9:15 p.m., I skipped the natural sleep aid and took a second Benadryl. Stumbled down the hall on shaky legs and crawled into bed.
This is where my husband got awesome. He told me that he’d sleep on the couch so I could get as much rest as possible. He gently rubbed my back and prayed over me, asking God to give me what I needed. He took the dogs (they follow me everywhere) and left the room.
The restless legs mocked me for awhile and I started to cry. In what can only be described as begging, I burst out, “God, just let me sleep!”
I woke up at 7:54 a.m.
At least 9 solid hours of sleep.
What a difference that makes.
My circumstances haven’t changed. I haven’t been to work this week, though my boss has graciously allowed me to do things from home so I don’t lose all my hours. The “whomps” are still whomping. The house…it’s kinda messy. I crave weird foods at weird times. My brain is going to ooze out my ear any minute and my body feels like jelly.
But this won’t last forever.
I don’t hate my life.
Our window-unit and strategically placed fans provide adequate relief from the heat.
I’m not going to sue Eli-Lilly. Not unless there’s a class-action case. Then I’ll consider it.
I bless all the people who prayed for me last night. I bless my mom who told me to pop the pills. I bless my husband. I bless the man who invented Benadryl.
Most of all, I bless God. John Piper defines blessing God as “recogniz[ing] His great richness, strength, and gracious bounty and to express our gratitude and delight in seeing and experiencing it.” Yes. I bless God.
I sing this along with Josh Wilson:
To read all the posts in The Detox Diaries series, go here.