My winding, relentless efforts towards one night of deep, uninterrupted sleep
Lately I’ve been having vivid dreams.
It could be the new medication I’m on, the weird mix of books I’m picking up, general stress, or the fact that I hear the whirring of CPAP machines and the low quality sound of Pakistani dramas coming down the hall from my parents’ room now that I am living at home again. A whole host of things could be the cause of my bizarre dreams—which I often awake disoriented from, in a state of confusion, glee, and sometimes fear. To combat this, I’ve been on a hellbent mission to optimize the time bordering my sleep. I’ve tried everything—and I mean everything: nighttime routines, overpriced skincare, aromatherapy, essential oils, baths, screen time, no screen time, white noise, substances, orgasms, and everything in between. On this journey to one night of deep, uninterrupted sleep, I thought I would share some of my tactics with you, in case you too are suffering from sleepless nights.
Empty head, no thoughts? Not anymore— Like most of us 11 months into this upended era, I can’t be alone with myself for very long. I’ve taken to sporting my wireless headphones (an impulse buy in mid-April) everywhere. In an attempt to optimize my listening, I began tracking my way through a list of podcasts. Some of my favourites include: Heavyweight, Modern Love, and The Daily. The one that has captivated my empty mind the most, however, is the since renamed Ezra Klein Show. I found that it scratched the itch of longing for those chats with friends somewhere on campus—where we project an image of intellectualism but know each other intimately enough to admit what we don’t know. And so, as I delve into any routine, I listen to the meandering conversations between Ezra and his guests—only to wind up lying in bed, nursing the wound of being a young person under late-stage capitalism. Soon, my dreams transform into policy alternatives and graduating into a recession. Sadly, even Ezra Klein’s lisp can’t soothe that feeling of impending doom.
Maybe you haven’t tried Indica— After two months at home, I finally gave in and attempted to buy weed in my hometown, then got intimidated and went online to order a few grams of Indica and an obscenely priced vape pen that I vaguely knew how to use. When it finally arrived, I panicked about my parents finding it. I came up with a foolproof solution. Years ago, when I inherited a metal box that locked shut like a safe, I wondered if it was worth lugging around this glorified pencil box—but now? Now it was the perfect vessel for what would hopefully be the final and finally effective solution to my depression night-time routine. To avoid any risk, I immediately stuck it in the lockbox, not even bothering to unpackage anything. I saved the unwrapping for a time when I’d be home by myself, thus evading the teenage paranoia of getting caught that would inevitably affect my high. Two weeks later, it was time. I slathered on a sample of a facemask I got from Nordstrom in 2018 and listened to Clairo. I had just gotten off the phone with my stoner friend, who gave me advice on using the vape pen. I went to “access the goods,” clicking the numbered dials on the box to read out the right code. Deep breath—I reached for the hinges. Nothing. Thinking it was jammed, I slapped the area with the code, wondering if aggression would coax the hardware into that magical place to unlock the weed. Still, nothing. Fuck. For weeks since, every night, I’ve tried to pry open the impenetrable box. It’s been a month now, and I’ve begun dreaming about getting high to have better dreams. The lockbox sits on my nightstand, slightly dented from a time I took a hammer to it and then got sad for hurting the box.
DIY until your hands cramp— Soon after, I switched out doom scrolling on Twitter for time spent on the absurd, winking, Dadaist side of Tik Tok. I subsequently spiralled and headed over to the wholesome DIY side of the app. Newly fixated, each evening after work, I’d come home with more craft supplies, unearthing glue sticks and craft paper from the depths of the family den’s set of drawers that had remained untouched for almost a decade. I feverishly made those twisty candles, coasters, earrings, and more candles. I figured the tactile nature of these crafts would quell my racing anxieties, and they did—temporarily. That is, until I’d made more candles than could fit on the bathroom surfaces and my mom needed the dining table back.
Impress Adriene— On Wednesday nights, I try to tackle the mid-week slump by contorting my body into a sweaty pretzel alongside a “Yoga with Adriene” video on an exercise mat that I found in the back of my sister’s closet. She’s not home till June, so I figure I’m in the clear to “borrow” a whole host of her things. Just minutes in, I become hyper-aware that I’m sweating from the mere strain of standing, realizing that no one is making me do this but myself. In just five minutes of heavy breathing, I resolve that I’m already too invested to quit, and have developed an unhealthy need to seek validation from Adriene.
Overheat in the bathtub— For the first time in my life, I’ve had the almost criminally indulgent fortune of having a bathroom to myself. The bathroom across the hall from my childhood bedroom, once a witness to three terse, groggy teens—all with varyingly complex morning and night-time routines—is now a haven of tranquility for me, myself, and I. I’ve taken to setting a speaker and all of my DIY candles (see above) atop ledges across the room. For a week, I filled the tub with Epsom salts and too-hot water. Lighting all of the candles with comically flimsy cardboard matches, I put on a nostalgic playlist that is always just a little too jarringly compiled (the jump from Andrew Bird to Bikini Kill is not soothing).
After half an hour of draining and refilling the tub with hotter and hotter water, I realize that I have nearly induced a fainting spell. Dizzily, I crawl out of the tub, wipe my brow, and lay on the peel-and-stick tile I toiled over this summer in a rushed attempt to “fix the aesthetics” of my previously beige linoleum.
Baby white noise— The aforementioned impulse-buy headphones are shockingly comfortable for a side sleeper. When the once soothing sounds of Ezra or Michael Barbaro’s hums and haws become grating, I switch to different kinds of white noise. I’ve found that the tracks with cover images of a peaceful, sleeping baby do the trick. Sadly, at the end of the year, I resentfully look back at my Spotify Wrapped, realizing that I have even less material to post to my Instagram story in a futile attempt to convince my crush I’m so cool that I unironically listen to Gord Downie and liked Fiona Apple before Fetch the Bolt Cutters was even released.
Deep breaths— I’ve tried to match my breathing to my heartbeat, only to get distracted by the whirr of the two CPAP machines keeping my parents’ nasal passages open down the hall. I place the too-flat pillow I still need to replace over my ears, stare at the old glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck on the popcorn ceiling. Remembering that none of it really matters anyways, I reach for my phone.
Melatonin— I’ve told my friend that I know it’s just a placebo drug. This is a lie—and even if it is a placebo, I’m willing to try anything. Before bed, I let the minty pill dissolve and wait. And wait and wait and wait. Eventually, I fall asleep—and then wake up with a dry mouth. It’s 3 am and I do not fall back asleep. I message a friend a cropped screenshot of an irrelevant meme from Instagram and count the tasks I have to do for the next week, then month, then the next decade.
Optimise your doom scrolling content— Watch soothing YouTube videos. I’m partial to watching white men tell me about how to grab life by the balls as if they are the healthier, vegan version of Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Something about their entitlement to being the main character is fascinating enough to engage with but repetitive enough to lull me to sleep.
Eventually switch from fitness white men to artisan white men—look at that art restoration! Wonder if you, too, should leave a thirst comment under Baumgartner Art Restoration. Spend the wee hours of the night in a fetal position, eyes straining to understand how that one potter pulls clay so effectively.
Get off to get sleepy— Wait for a new vibrator to arrive, which I ordered online from Indigo so my parents wouldn’t suspect anything. Upon arrival, the package was left outside my front door at -48 degrees Celsius for an entire day so, no, immediate gratification would not be happening that night. While waiting for it to defrost, I considered reading old fanfiction to get in the mood while I waited, only to get sad about the boy who ghosted me after six very long dates over Christmas break. I resolved that love is a scam and even though an orgasm might cure my onset migraine, it would not make the lonely ache of pandemic singledom any less painful. I went to sleep hugging my pillow.
Amidst the tragicomic moments of my wind-down routines, I’ve often fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. Though I’ve taken to applying these sometimes-clichéd, sometimes-ridiculous practices like a balm for my strange dreams, I have yet to find one that sticks. My attempts to optimize any and all free time say something about the ways we’ve absorbed the need to be productive and just how much our surroundings (read: the constant, latent humming of the doomsday vibes of this pandemic) seep into our physiological and subconscious selves. There is little we can feasibly do to “fix” the ways our bodies respond to distress when it is derived from such massive, existential angst. So, fall asleep however you want, or can.
