I have always relied on my ability to sleep. I drop off the minute I hit the pillow, regardless of circumstances, and I sleep solid–even that ever-present alertness that comes with a baby and a monitor only threw me a little off my stride. Until…this.
I honestly don’t know if it was Rory, or China. I’d doze, but I couldn’t sleep, not really sleep, not the deep velvety stuff with the dreams you don’t know are dreams, and it was miserable–apparently if I don’t turn off my brain once in a while, it totally overheats. And there, in the cabinet, was the little bottle of Ambien, prescribed years ago and almost totally unused. And boy, did it bring sleep. Glossy, wobbly stuff that returned immediately, even if someone woke me in the night. Mmm…sleep.
I loved it. And I loved the reliability of it. I even kind of loved needing it, because it was there, so it was ok to need it, if that makes any sense. But…
Caving to pressure last night from my mother and a subtle reminder from a friend that although the drug itself may not be addictive, the depth of sleep it gives is, I hereby declare the last remaining Ambien in the bottle for emergencies only. I cancelled my doctor appointment, I took nothing last night (and Rob’s not home, so I really need my sleep), and it was…ok. It took me a while to really get down into that sleep level that truly restores, but it did happen. I slept, I’m fine today, I’ll sleep again tonight. I was kind of worried about the stereotypical elements of it all, plus I had images of myself a few months from now, when no one would give me any more, trolling the Internet for an off-shore pharmacy.
So, no more. I am just a regular girl, I can’t afford even the mildest, lamest of drug addictions. Back to no caffiene and the soothing bedtime routine. Warm milk, anyone? (Yuck!)