Iíve come to the conclusion that sleep is overrated. I know this because I got a full eight hours of (medicated) sleep last night, and yet I was still miserable all day today. If Iím going to feel this lousy after all that sleep, I might as well stay up late and watch old movies (or old Survivor episodes) until I canít stay up any more. It couldnít make things any worse.
The fact that I took a sleeping pill last night accounts for the extra sleep time. It probably also accounts for the way I had to drag my body through the day, and also the fact that I woke up every hour or so during the night. It seemed like sound sleep because I couldnít move, but you donít get much rest when you canít stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.
Anyway, I might have to do away with that little experiment. This was the fourth Sunday night in a row that Iíve tried the pill, and I always felt that Mondays were better because of it. But the drop-off from Monday to Tuesday was pretty steep, and by Friday I was useless. This week, for some reason, the uselessness started on Monday.
This morning I manage to snap at several people, including some who have actual feelings. When I roar at the Boss, it sifts through him like air thatís only a little heavier than usual. When I yell at Julie, I can feel her deflating, right through the phone. Then I feel even worse than before.
So Iíve given up on trying to figure out how to get the right amount of sleep. Iíll just take it as it comes, whether itís two oíclock in the morning or two oíclock in the afternoon. It doesnít seem to do me any good anyway, so Iíll just consider it an inconvenient necessity and fight it as long as I have to.