Sleeping Pills, Anyone?

This new generation of sleeping pills that boasts no side effects is ruining the self-loathing consciousness of this world.

I say this because the countless nights I spend roiling (that word, in my mind, means a combination of rolling – as in tossing and turning- and broiling – as in, my own stew) are being erased by the ease and effectiveness of the likes of Ambien, a relatively new sleep aid that truly puts one to sleep and causes absolutely no drowsiness or hangover the next day, and as a bonus, it is not addictive.

However, I worry that without the self-blistering sermons I typically endure during the night, that I will become a pompous ass.

You see, the many nights in which I spend “roiling” in my bed keep me humble because it’s during those sessions I review my day and harangue myself for all the stupid things I did that day. Probably, in reality, this is psychosis, but since I’ve not sought professional help, let’s pretend all sane people have sessions of remonstrations that prevent sleep.

Before the days of Ambien, I employed sensible means to court sleep: comfortable bed, nice soft cotton bedding, fluffy pillows, and my husband ensures that it’s freezing cold in our house; so, when I snuggle under the feather filled comforter, it’s warm and toasty between the fair linens. My head nestles into the puffy pillow, my legs move under the cold sheets, and I roll to my right side and close my eyes. With highest hopes for successful sleep, I smile and begin the nightly conversation with my friend, Nighttime.

“Hello, Nighttime. It’s me. Let’s start new tonight – no struggles — I was productive today – crossed off thirteen items on the to do list and several of them required thought and follow-through – and, because of my accomplishments, I am worthy of sleep.”

In an effort to seem in control of my life, I continue the conversation with Nighttime and use a technique I read in a self-help article once in a doctor’s office, “Nighttime, I will tell you five things I am thankful for today. First, I am thankful for the most special, worthy, beautiful, loving family a person could ever dream of having…”

Nighttime barges into my thoughts of my wonderful husband and children, and he brings to the forefront an image of my sweet little boy’s cherub face. The pale face has tinted rosy cheeks, big blue eyes and the kindest smile ever imaginable.

Nighttime begins speaking, “Oh, what a gem of a child. Seriously, in comparison to every child ever born in the world, your son might be the kindest and sweetest of all the children who have ever lived.”

I blush at my good fortune, and Nighttime continues, “Remember today when you grabbed that sweet, innocent little boy’s arms and said, ‘Stop. Yelling.’? Really, a good mother would never have treated the sweetest child in the world like that. That boy deserves a better mother – a mother who would kindly, softly re-direct.”

Defensively, I retort, “But he was loudly chanting ‘Fatty Patty’ over and over to his sister, and she was howling in hysterics. I had repeatedly told him to stop, and I only sternly held his arms and looked him in the eyes and told him to stop. Should I not discipline him?”

Nighttime gives me a knowing look and conjures several examples of perfect teachers and mothers who never raise their voices or grab arms. If the preschool teacher, a virtual stranger who sees him for three hours, twice a week, can command my son’s attention and direct his behavior with nothing more than a gentle hand laid on his back, then surely I should be able to do that – if I were a good mother then I could do that, but I’m not a good mother and my son deserves to be raised by the nice mother of my child’s friend.

Nighttime’s closing arguments against my being a good mother are convincing, and I concede and close that case. Losing such an important point puts a chink in my armor, but I know that perfection is allusive. I can’t be good at everything. So I lost the good mother fight, it’s a big world and there are lots ways I am a good and valued person. In fact, didn’t Nighttime take note of the thirteen tasks I crossed off my to-do list?

Nighttime gives me credit for the diligent work but begins beating me with images of my un-bathed self and my messy desk. “I was writing,” I rationalize. “Showering and putting on make-up takes an hour, and if I want to accomplish everything then something has to go. Today it was the shower that went – big deal. That has nothing to do with my quality of character.”

Nighttime, the supreme judge, counters with, “Say what you will, but Nancy, Jane and Sue are able to dress themselves everyday and still manage to find time to work, exercise, parent and write best-sellers. You’re a loser, actually.”

Much roiling begins. I begin to plan the next day and detail how I will be a better person. I’ll get up early and take a quick walk around the neighborhood—well, I’ll make it a run to save time because I’ve got to shower before taking the kids to school. Hell, cancel the exercise I’ll buy a treadmill and exercise at night. A treadmill must cost $2,000.

Speaking of spending money, I’ve got to quit spending it. How unfair it is that I work less than ever and make less money than ever, and I spend three times as much money on frivolous luxury items for myself as my poor, unselfish, hard-working husband spends on himself – who am I kidding, I spend six times as much money as my husband!

My husband – the man with few financial needs, who, without me, the albatross around his neck, would be completely fulfilled teaching literature, but because of my intense financial needs, he is forced to continue being a lawyer and hating his work. The roiling stops. It stops because I get out of bed and go to my office and start working.

When I take an Ambien that entire process is eliminated. It never happens. I take the pill, read a few pages in my book, turn-off the light and go to sleep. In the morning, the light begins to invade my room, the distant sounds of traffic form and the birds start chattering about breakfast. I wake-up after having eight – or even nine- hours of sleep. Refreshed, I happily pop out of bed. My eyes don’t burn and my head does not pound.

Sounds good, but what will happen if Nighttime does not have a chance to dismount me from the “high horse” from which my mother warned me was a “long way to fall”?

Will I become like a woman I know who has such confidence that she acts foolish and arrogant? The woman, who clearly must take Ambien, probably does not review herself and while she is publicly admired, she is secretly loathed.

I’ve always been afraid of heights.