My Simple Guide to Guarantee Eight Hours Undisturbed Sleep

And why I wish someone would just get on and write it…. Tell me one thing: why can I fall asleep in the chair in front of the TV but be wide awake as soon as I lie down in my nice, comfy bed? WHY IS THAT?? So many times I’ve nodded off from sheer […]

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My Guide to Guaranteed Eight Hours Sleep
credit to Bruce Mars on Unsplash
And why I wish someone would just get on and write it….

Tell me one thing: why can I fall asleep in the chair in front of the TV but be wide awake as soon as I lie down in my nice, comfy bed?


So many times I’ve nodded off from sheer exhaustion in the late evening but then sprung back awake as soon as my body realises that it’s nice and snuggly in my bed, in the darkened bedroom, where it knows it should go to sleep?

What is it about me that means that I can’t sleep when I actually want to? What keeps me awake?


I’m too excited running over the memories of what made me happy that day that I can’t settle- I want to recall every single detail and relive it, over and over again. It makes me smile- it makes me laugh softly to myself: picturing the whole scenario. Yes, that was great, that was really something special; something I’ll never forget.


 I’m so busy running over the various shades of gloomy possibilities and anticipated disastrous outcomes that I can’t switch off. Really, what is the point of trying to think logically like a true problem-solver when it’s nearly three a.m.?

No point. Logic has never been my strong suit at the best of times, but in the early hours I just haven’t got a chance.

I’ll get up. I’ll make a cup of tea, and that’ll make me feel better. No, I’ll just lie here a little longer and I’m bound to drop off to sleep sooner or later. Three a.m. Four.


 I’ve achieved nothing all day, so my mind is running down the lists of items that I have not done and therefore will need to get done the next day. And how pointless and frustrating the whole thing is. I’m not getting anywhere.

 I never get anywhere.

I am stuck.

 I am trapped.

There’s no point in even trying. And now I’m too hot.


 The menopause. I’m burning up to about one million degrees under the duvet; my hair is saturated, my pyjamas are glued to my body. However, stick out so much as a foot to cool down and it quickly freezes in the cold air of the bedroom and needs to be swiftly returned to the clammy safety of the incubator of the duvet cover again.

Get up. Just get up, Christine, and walk around and cool down for a bit. Maybe read for a while. No, no, I need to sleep…..

What s/he said

Conversations I’d had that day, and what I should’ve said, but didn’t. If only I’d thought of that at the time!

It seems so obvious now! What an idiot I am!

 Did s/he really mean it to sound like that, or was it just some kind of a joke, that I just didn’t get?

 What did s/he really mean when s/he said that?

 Was it this?

Or did s/he really mean that?

Why didn’t I see that at the time?

Why am I so stupid?


 Owls, to me, are mysterious and wonderful creatures, winging their ethereal way through the branches of the trees through the hours of darkness. But they are noisy critters, and they pull my imagination to the world outside which is not sleeping and set me to listening; gauging their distance from the house; picturing their outstretched wings, gliding.


Oh boy- yes- all my greatest, most ambitious and exciting plans are made in those insomniac hours when anything is possible!

Plan during the working hours when I am seated at my laptop? No- blank screen on my laptop; blank screen in my head. However, lie down to sleep and my mind is suddenly the most creative place in the universe: cogs and wheels whirring with invention and ambition; sparking with electrical energy, my hair bristling with static.


My dad wearing nappies. The note behind the clock on the mantelpiece that said ‘Do not resuscitate.’ The living room and the Christmas tree looking like it always did when I went home at Christmas, except for the fact that there was a hospital bed where the dining table used to be, and strangers coming in four times a day; putting on plastic aprons and writing down what they’d done in booklets.

Discussing doses of morphine with my mum in the kitchen. And just not knowing what I should say- to her, or to him.

Feeling so useless.

 So baffled by his weakness when he had always been so strong.

Seeing how my mum was angry with him; how she couldn’t really hide it.

A simple Guide to Help You Get Eight Hours Undisturbed Sleep Every Night

I will release this as a free e-book, once I’ve worked out what to write in it.

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