Insomnia Page 6
The poet Stephen Cushman finds the shifting meanings of the marriage bed to be equally potent—and perhaps, equally confusing. “Behold the wreckage of night,” he writes, inviting us to picture “covers disheveled by love.” Or if not love, then anxiety, in which case the bedclothes may have been cast off “in vast deserts of insomnia where trepidations bomb tranquility to rubble.” Cushman does not elaborate. But in observing how the bed—this “hub of marriage”—got mangled, he advises that we remake it, and that we bring care and deliberation to the task. He suggests we think about solemnizing the occasion, working to God’s plan or “Noah’s pattern” and bringing in male and female, two by two, to ensure renewal.
In Cushman’s view, the marriage bed is an ark in its own right—a divinely blessed covenant that consecrates coupledom. By remaking it we can remake the world. And night will be its witness.
At Buscot Park it was Burne-Jones’s handsome prince who persistently drew my gaze—the only wakeful figure in all the paintings. Poised at the far end of the first panel, a knight clad in iron plating, he stands with his sword at the ready, surveying the thorny briar in whose tangled branches are suspended the twisted bodies of those who went before him only to perish, and contemplates how he is going to “smite the sleeping world awake.” I would like you please to note that the prince does not wish to kiss or smooch the world awake. He wants to make a noise and shake it the hell up, like Gilgamesh.
Or like Burne-Jones himself. Or like his political compadre, William Morris. The former, so often dismissed as a dreamer or idealist who longed to escape the world into a mythic past of fairy tales and Arthurian lore, in reality nurtured the dearly held hope of creating a contemporary revolution in art and vision. Morris, meanwhile (and it was Morris who penned the verses I’ve been quoting, mourning the stillness of the “restless shuttle” and calling on the prince to smite the world awake), threw in his lot with the exploited proletariat. Both men recognized that enchanted sleep is dreamless. And if you can’t dream, then how can you entertain visions of a better world? How can you incite revolutions?
In my CBT group there were about fifteen insomniacs with assorted complaints. A man with the lofty but stooped bearing of a Romantic poet, pale and bony-faced and so wired he could not sleep at all. A woman who kept falling asleep at her office desk, but stayed up all night watching Netflix. Another woman whose issues remained murky: red-eyed, hunted-looking, she would cry each time she was invited to share something personal. Perhaps we were all thwarted revolutionaries, exhausted by the fight, as battle-weary as Gilgamesh but without the euphoric kick. I mean, the energy in that room was as flat as days-old beer.
If only Charles Simic had been there to share the joke. Here, at last, I had stumbled upon his congress of insomniacs. We were not a glamorous bunch. Gathered in a hospital conference room, not a ballroom, and with no starry speakers about to take the stage, we had to content ourselves with padded blue institutional chairs, wide-beamed and pilling, sugary drinks, and cheap biscuits—the kind of surroundings that can build a tentative camaraderie based on head-shaking incredulity. Here were the zombies: and here was the nice room where we would sit in a circle and try not to growl.
At the sleep clinic we learned about sleep and how to get it. We learned to keep sleep diaries and we learned about sleep hygiene. All of us were given sleep diets.
I told the group that I had been reading Samuel Pepys’s diary, which recorded his nocturnal escapades, modest as they were in being confined to his bedchamber. Still, Pepys relates how all the world came to him. His bed was a place for music and reading, and when he deigned to share it with guests who had come to dine and then overstayed, it was where their diverting conversation continued. Pepys liked to get his hair cut in his bedchamber by a trusted female servant (who had to put up with the occasional grope), and he routinely quarreled and reconciled with his wife beneath the covers. When things were good between them he would teach Mrs. Pepys “things in astronomy” under a gibbous moon, vigilant as a peeled eyeball.
Pepys’s busy bedchamber went against every tenet of sleep hygiene, whose humorless adherents insist that beds are for two things alone, sleep and sex.
Going by the rules of sleep hygiene, Zzz and I make for wholly incompatible bedfellows. I like to leave the window open for ventilation; he likes it shut (else every footfall on pavement, bird call, or car alarm gets funneled into his one hearing ear). I long for an immersive darkness, he leaves the bedroom door open to bothersome light from the stairwell, claiming this generates the airflow that I would much rather blew in from outside. I feel the cold; he gets hot and bothered. He reads past midnight, I pass out with my book falling on my face, and when I snore he elbows me. However, going by the more forgiving rules of love, Zzz and I accommodate each other, in sleep as in life.
The modern cure for insomnia is sleep restriction. The opposite of the rest cure, which feeds you up, the sleep diet keeps you hungry for sleep by keeping things lean. How lean, you might ask? Well, first you need to work out how much sleep you are entitled to by determining your “sleep efficiency quotient”—a magic number arrived at by dividing the number of hours you sleep by the number of hours you actually spend in bed, trying and failing to sleep. My sleep quotient is 63 percent, so my diet is strict. It obliges me to sleep for no more than the 5.6 hours a night that I averaged over a four-week run, diligently recorded in the sleep diary I’d been encouraged to keep at the sleep clinic. Only if I up my sleep efficiency quotient to 90 percent by observing proper sleep hygiene practices am I permitted to add fifteen minutes of sleep to my nightly diet.
It is a torment to take an insomniac and then deprive them of sleep. The sleep therapists seem entirely blind to the fact that counting anything, but most of all counting sleep—calculating its efficiency, its depth, its span, while adding up every minute spent lying awake each night between all-too-shallow bouts of it—is the very thing that will stop an insomniac from sleeping. That, or they are sadists.
Nor do the sleep experts, who freely advise on cognitive matters (the C in CBT), appreciate the workings of the insomniac mind. Routinely, they offer the sleep-deprived a range of “blockers” to counter those insistent, intrusive thoughts that can keep us from sleeping. One of these blockers consists of silently chanting “the, the, the, the, the,” over and over, for unendurably long minutes. It is the mental equivalent of telling your brain to talk to the hand. And yet “the, the, the, the, the” is just the sort of senseless thought train that nourishes the insomniac mind: repetitive, rhythmic, dumbly enigmatic and therefore intrinsically engaging, it pivots between the familiar and alien, zooms in and out of the uncanny.
Besides, intrusive thinking is just one way the insomniac brain stokes itself. Harder to fathom (and to treat) is the freewheeling, seemingly autonomous tripping through utter banality, the nighttime regurgitation of daytime crud—of the stuff that doesn’t actually merit deliberation—that moves like an arm-linked chain of can-can dancers through a demi-wakefulness that exists beyond any conscious control, but (and this is the source of frustration) is conscious enough—kick, and kick, and kick—that you have to clock it.
Too often my insomniac mind is stuck in crud-chewing mode. It feeds me snippets of song, meshed with advertorial-type sloganizing that might, in turn, trigger a memory from childhood before pinging back to a thought-of desire (a want) or to something I saw on the Internet, or something someone told me—then on again, unpredictable, inconsequential, threading and worming inside my head. Nothing is more inimical to rest and yet I am powerless to stop it. It is like waterboarding the mind with meaningless overflow, a smothering drip, drip, drip of surplus thought.
It is a well-known fact that each of us contains an internal clock that regulates our circadian rhythms (in response to changing levels of temperature, light, and melatonin, among other things). These cellular clocks have just two modes, wakeful and sleepy, roughly corresponding to day and night, but in insomniacs they don’t work pro
perly, the likely result of irregularities in melatonin production. When your circadian rhythms are out of sync with the diurnal round, you feel sleepy at odd, inconvenient times and awake at night: jet-lagged in your native time zone. Strictly speaking, these body clocks are not a timekeeping device but a sleepkeeping one, a guardian of the rest that each of us is permitted to accrue.
When I think of insomnia’s wayward rhythms what I picture is this: gaudy insomnia with its wide lapels and toothy grin is the last groover on the dance floor, still going at it after everyone else has collapsed in a heap or gone home. You are desperate to shut up the joint for the night but insomnia is on a roll, singing along to all the tunes, gyrating wildly, body popping and whooping, letting it rip. To crown it all, insomnia is a god-awful dancer. You are wilting with exhaustion. Bleary-eyed, your body leaden, you hanker for nothing more than to sleep, and yet you must endure this thing—this coked-up arriviste!—who on top of everything else (the clowning, the nagging insistence, the manic glare) has no freaking beats.
Neither do I, as it happens. In menopause I have grown accustomed to having no rhythms to speak of, neither hormonal nor lunar, and certainly not circadian.
Still, there are other rhythms that govern sleep, subject to such complex mechanisms of internal control that the best we can do is represent them graphically. I am referring to those characteristic patterns of electrical activity that the brain displays as it stealthily guides us into sleep, beta waves morphing into alpha waves then theta waves, and finally delta waves—those long-drawn-out pulses that scratch extended claw marks onto the graph paper and signify the arrival of deep sleep. Reading up on this process, a joyful thump pulses my chest as I learn that at the threshold of sleep, on the very brink of delta-wave insensibility, you get a blip or two on the graph, which on closer inspection turns out to be a series of shallow theta waves, all bunched up like yarn wound around a spindle. Without these “sleep spindles” forming, sleep will not come. So perhaps every sleep is enchanted after all.
Except for REM sleep. Which is not enchanted but paradoxical, because in REM sleep the body sleeps deeply while the brain is only half-sleeping. This explains why we can snap out of a bad dream, or spring awake in the middle of a too-good one, and why, once in a rare blue moon, we experience the strange power trip that is lucid dreaming. The paradoxes inherent in REM sleep, however, cannot even begin to account for how the brain is able to entertain itself with its own magic lantern shows, raiding the image banks of our unconscious minds, searching out characters and props and wholly repressed memories and motivations, and then knit them together into spontaneously evolving story lines and dissolving phantasmagoria.
In October 1964, Vladimir Nabokov decided to keep a dream diary. Every morning, immediately upon waking, he would write down whatever he could rescue from the night, and for the next couple of days he would be on active lookout for anything that seemed to do with the remembered dream. Nabokov was testing a theory which suggested that dreams might be prophetic; that rather than containing a jumble of reconstituted shards of daily experience, mingled with cut-and-paste plots borrowed from our memory stores and personal demons escaped from the inner closets of repression, our dreams might also offer a proleptic vision of what is to come, turning every one of us into clairvoyants.
Nabokov had fallen under the sway of the maverick British aeronautical engineer John W. Dunne, who, in the early decades of the last century, came up with a left-field theory of Time that he laid out in a series of cryptic books filled with runic runs of algebra and frenetic diagrams. Boiled down to its concentrate by one Nabokov scholar, the theory posits that “time’s progress is not unidirectional but recursive: the reason we do not notice the backflow is that we are not paying attention.” In 1964, Nabokov started paying attention, and he recorded several instances of identifying preamnesia—that is, unwittingly manufacturing a preceding dream that matched a later waking experience. For Nabokov, as for Dunne, dreams became a kind of portal through which chunks of personal experience could effectively be teleported across time.
In this topsy-turvy world in which time can multiply serially or run backwards inside hidden loops, dreams are to timekeeping what wormholes are to space. They are singularities into which all succession (with wormholes, its dimension) simply pours and is obliterated. The question is whether insomnia might also qualify as a singularity, and, if so, what gets sucked in and obliterated other than sleep. Peace of mind, rest, a coherent sense of one’s self? Or is it your dignity?
Roberto Bolaño wrote of the numberless ways in which those shapeless border zones between one place and another (Texas and Mexico, in his case, but it could be anywhere, and it could be day and night) mess with your head. The borderlands are neither here nor there, neither this nor that. They are a no-man’s-land patrolled by vigilantes and assassins. The soil under your feet in the borderlands is watered with blood and the horizons offer only “wind and dust”—a “minimal dream.” Such places (or psychic spaces), says Bolaño, lead to a condition that is much to be feared. He calls it an “eviction of the mind.”
Another dream theory: our dreams are social. Which is to say there exist dream templates we all share, born of mythic archetypes that reside in the collective unconscious (thank you, Jung) or arising out of shared traumatic experiences of the kind that Charlotte Beradt uncovered in the 1930s, when as a young Jewish journalist living in Vienna she suffered nightmares of being “hunted from pillar to post—shot at, tortured, scalped.” Convinced that her countrymen and women were, like her, busy funneling their anxieties into their dreams, she began to interview people about their nightmares and to write these down. Synergies and sympathies quickly emerged, leading Beradt to conclude that people who live in fear for their freedom under stridently authoritarian regimes end up inhabiting a shared dreamscape. “In the darkness of night they reproduced in distortion all they had experienced in that sinister daytime world.”
One woman dreamed that posters had been set up on every street corner listing the words people were no longer permitted to use. The first was Lord, the last, I. Neither god nor self could be acknowledged. Another person dreamed he was in his apartment relaxing with a book, when suddenly the walls around his room then his apartment disappear, and he hears over a loudspeaker that henceforth the Nazis are outlawing all walls. He told Beradt: “I looked around and discovered to my horror that as far as the eye could see, no apartment had walls anymore.” Beradt claims that this is the dream of someone who resists collectivization. It is rooted in a defiance that would lead to a sanity-saving dissociation: what people at the time began to call “Inner Emigration.”
In many of the dreams—Beradt smuggled them out of Austria after the Anschluss of 1938, scrawled in code on tiny bits of paper—the domestic space that ought to safeguard an individual’s privacy becomes a place of terror and surveillance. Lamps listen to you then tell you off, cushions balk, spying desk clocks testify against you. One of Beradt’s subjects dreamed that the Dutch oven in her living room “began to talk in a harsh and penetrating voice, repeating every word she and her husband said against the government.”
Coping with the mounting paranoia (a symptomatic shunting of the logic of insomnia into day) demanded urgent measures. Not so much an inner emigration but its opposite, an inner evacuation. This could take a sinister turn, making people blind—asleep!—to the atrocities being enacted all around them. Elsewise, it might befuddle and confound the authorities, as one woman envisioned when she dreamed that she was talking in her sleep and “to be on the safe side” was talking in Russian—a language she neither spoke nor understood. If she could not understand herself, she reasoned, then neither could the government. Unconsciously, the woman sought subterfuge from the fascists by making herself unintelligible. This is also an eviction of the mind.
In a coda to the English translation of Beradt’s dream collection, published in 1966, Bruno Bettelheim observes that the Nazi regime successfully forced its enemies to
dream the kind of dreams it wanted them to dream. That resistance was impossible, that they were contaminated and inferior, that safety lay only in compliance. These were dreams that told people too much about themselves. They were dreams that told them what they did not want to know. On this account, writes Bettelheim, the Nazis, like Macbeth, “murdered sleep.”
I could murder some sleep. Even at the price of reckoning with my soul. Especially at that price, in fact, since everybody carries a part of the night within them, a small piece of impenetrable, unknowing darkness, akin to what Freud referred to as the “navel” of a dream, which was his term for that untranslatable nub of the thing that forever resists interpretation.
The other night I had a shotgun awakening, courtesy of a bad dream that refused to end and instead seeped out of my head and into the bedroom like a noxious gas, contaminating everything. Whatever I peered at in the dark acquired jagged edges or some other menacing aspect: furniture loomed, taking on fearsome dimensions. The curtains looked shifty. Even Zzz looked unnaturally angular in shadowy outline, as though some nocturnal Medusa had slunk her snaky head around our bedroom door and ossified him mid-rollover. Never had Zzz’s absence appeared more present. Looking at him—looking for him—was like looking into the abyss.