This week has engulfed me and swallowed me up.
From funeral plans and eulogy writing, to treadmill tests, to meetings for long overdue projects, to out of town visitors, to preparing to leave town Monday, I am up at 3 am trying to offload some frayed energy so I can nod out.
Tracy's talking about insomnia and burning out over at 'time for your meds.'
I can relate. Too much activity or too many demands in one concentrated span of time will cause the nutty little chipmunks in one's head to want to party all night.
Mine are like rave attendees on ecstasy tonight. I don't like the music and the dancing is making my head vibrate. I'm too old to have to think about raves, much less hosting one in my brain.
I am not bipolar. I am like any other middle-aged, post menopausal woman, I just have insomnia when I need it the least.
I was all set to go to sleep at 11. Then I noticed "The Godfather" was on. By the time Michael Corleone had taken over the mob, I was wide awake like it was high noon.
I went to bed anyway, and in the darkness I heard the list of what I had to do over the P.A. system of my mind...over and over and over.
So I log on and there's a letter from my sister, concerned about our 89-year-old mother, whose senility is growing like ivy. I scanned it as fast as I could so I wouldn't flip out.
Now I have heartburn to go with my insomnia.