We've had a tenuous relationship for decades. For months, he's consistent and kind. Then, he starts getting flaky. Suddenly, Mr Reliable becomes Mr Fickle. I want to hate him, but I need him too much.
You need him, too. We all do. Sleep. Elusive at the worst times. The stress of not being able to sleep feeds insomnia, like a dog's blood feeds a flea.
I'm well-acquainted with 3am. It lives in the netherworld of time - too early to be late and too late to get much sleep until morning. Songs are written about that hour. A group called Matchbox Twenty in 1996 sang, "It's 3am I must be lonely ..." Wikipedia calls 3am the witching hour, the time of haunting when demons and ghosts appear. Instead of the supernatural, I wrestle thought zombies: What if the kids get sick? What if I get cancer? Did I pay that bill? What's that sound downstairs? What's the mum's name from the gym and where did I meet her? Was I staring? Why can't I remember her name? Do I have early-onset dementia?
If I'm lucky, I meet 3am and his siblings, 3.01, 3.02, 3.03 ... only a few times each month. Usually, it's because I've gotup to use the bathroom and can't fall back to sleep. Then, my stomach rumbles because eight hours have elapsed since dinner.
Option A: Lie still and resist. Scroll Facebook to see genius children, perfect partnerships and European vacations. Sprinkle with Donald Trump's latest lie or plans to pillage the planet for an extra dose of worry. Pretend I'm not hungry.
Option B: Get up and get brekky. At 3am, it's always peppermint tea, two Weet-Bix and half a banana. This quiets my stomach but not my mind.
For that, the same internet bearing news of political chaos, terror attacks and rose-tinted families also provides my favourite consolation for insomnia: the podcast. Podcasts are like Netflix for your ears, usually free and accessible through a smart phone app.
My gateway drug was a programme called Radiolab, which I discovered while jet-lagged in Paris seven years ago. I inserted headphones and got hooked, listening to hosts Jad and Robert plait stories and science with sound and music.
They explained how famous neuroscientist Oliver Sacks can't recognise faces; how Tasmanian Devils battle contagious tumours; about a novel approach a nursing home in Germany developed to care for Alzheimer's and dementia patients. Their voices soothe; the music is eerie and comforting at once. Often, I find I've listened to just half the story because I've fallen asleep. Job done.
While I love reading myself drowsy, I'm wary of picking up a book or my Kindle in the middle of the night. Lights and glowing screens wake my husband and stimulate my senses.
