Good Morning Insomnia

and what a wonderful example of 1:45 in the morning this is.

Isn't it such a modern, first-world luxury?  Shame, I should be REVELLING in the ability to be unable to sleep.

Some people are apparently too darned tired to have such problems.  Hmph.  That just shows how ignorant some people are on the underlying cause of insomnia.

Having too many freaking problems.

Sure, they may not be the world-leading problems that should be keeping me awake, granted.

But thinking that I have failed my child - that is one that can be both indefineable and internationally shared - is a great one to worry you into the hours of the morning.

Then I worry that I will not be up and up to par for the day's tasks ahead, and that one is great for weaving into the insomniac narrative.

I can do an awesome number on not following dreams through being too scared.  Or up myself.  Or a bit of both.  Self-flagellation works from whatever angle you try on that lovely little mess.

The sudden memory of a missed bill - or message - or phone call - or task.  Sorting out the miscommunications of the past forty years.  Peering at the next 10 - years, months, days - with trepidation because I might have missed something.

"Don't worry Worry" - were you ever told that as a child?

To my mind, Worry must be a particularly scary fairy, alternatively unkempt and over-dressed, the manifestation of all my worst fears slumbering in the dusty shed of my psyche.

I tipitoe around Worry, so scared to wake it - because this anxiety that I have bouts of - about nothing, everything and whatever in between - is pretty harsh.

Imagine if I made it worse by worrying Worry about it all?

I warm some milk.  Who decided warmed milk was meant to be a cure?  I can imagine that the author of that information must have been rich, for refrigeration options would have to be paramount in the decision to push dairy products.  And then how to warm it?

While warming milk, the cat decides that it is time to demand a bit of attention - and by attention he means food.

He fixes me with that "and don't try to fob me off with that canned crap that is leftover in the fridge" glare.  You would think that this may be a comment on the quality of food available and the class of cat we are talking, but in fact it is just this particular varmint being as indeciferably fussy as possible.  I no longer have a "go to guarantee" with him.  Some days, the cheap stuff is all he will deign to eat, but the moment you lull yourself into a false sense of security, he will decide that no, in fact he is the cat who wants only fresh.  Or high-faluting stuff.

Paris is about to stir to claim her half of our bed.  I just heard the future rustle and my insomnia suddenly is pretending to be tired.

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