September 9, 2005
My First Round of Sleeping Pills
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

We live in busy times, and nothing says “You’re an adult now” like your first prescription of sleeping pills. For two straight weeks I’ve woken with the moon, unable to shut down my brain. I keep a notepad bedside for emergency thoughts, but this only invites new thoughts to the awakening and I’m up all night. I finally fall back to sleep around the time I need to get up for work.

Like millions of Americans, I am a hyperactive, inordinately social, over-scheduled zombie living in an epidemic of insomnia. With heavy heart and eyelids, I investigated my sleep alternatives.

I tried sleepy-formula herbal teas, warm milk and Herman Melville, but nothing seemed to work. The “www” informational highway suggested wiggling my toes (no such luck), sleeping with my head facing north (whatever), or visualizing something peaceful, which in my case was sleep itself. My soccer-mom friends told me to just “join the club” (promising advice, indeed).

Finally, I remembered my physician: when in doubt, get a script. Family doctors are special people—there should always be the best table reserved for them somewhere. Forced to listen to fifteen-minute presentations on what ails you, they nod and take a lot of notes.

I speak to mine in “first-person persuasive,” as if I’m there to solve a crime or justify the Theory of Relativity. I research symptoms before arriving, which helps save time by explaining exactly what is wrong and how he can help.

My doctor looks forward to seeing me.

With three hours of sleep under my belt from a night of added worry for humanity, I showed up at his office the day following Hurricane Katrina. My own “hurricane hair” from the bluster and rain, along with the dark circles under my eyes, helped denote my sleep deprivation and stress.

He asked how often I planned on taking the pills, which—hello—I knew was a trick question. Giving him an answer in the form of a question, I replied, “Rarely?”

Bingo.

I raced to the drug store, then quickly drove home, glowing orange bottle of pills in my hand. I lay on my bed, relaxed and preparing to take one. Sleep waited for me at the end of the tunnel, dangling a carrot-shaped lantern.

I read three chapters of “Everything is Illuminated,” and just before I took a pill—get this—I fell asleep.

Nine hours later, light from yonder window breaking, I awoke, full bottle of sleep aids untouched; now, just knowing they’re there helps me rest.