Sweet Dreams

I've suffered years of restless nights, with my total sleep time averaging six hours and some seconds per. That figure comprises numerous segments of variable length, many of which are measured in mere minutes.

For about six weeks now, my nightly total has been close on the heels of the elusive eight. This despite the continual interruptions occasioned by my feline bunkmate marching to-and-fro my face. (I’ve excluded from my tally my other type of cat-napping—i.e. on-couch-conking-out—which persists in its efforts to recoup a sleep deficit thirty years in the making.)

My sleep-deprived dream has come true! To live in the Land of Nod, to reside in its state of restorative rest. (Thanks to which at 62 I don’t look a day over 80.) I am of course delighted; equally so am I stumped. To what can I attribute the amazing improvement?

My mind has mulled itself over, mused upon the body as well. Obvious diagnosis: Depression, physical as well as mental. The latter is no surprise, stemming as it does from the mysterious manifestation of the former. That is, my stamina suddenly, inexplicably, tanked in December, resulting in a dramatic decline in my racing performance. Which led to my feeling demoralized. Thus depleted, I turned to sleep by way of consolation. After a month of indulgence, my mood lifted as I came to accept, albeit unhappily, my—likely irretrievable—loss of speed.

The depression explains why I started to sleep well. But how to account for my continuing to sleep well? I’ve pondered part two, and came up with this: As the cloud of disappointment began to disperse, a glimmer of silver was revealed. Going from Speedo to So-So has its compensations. My mind used to outpace my body—indeed, I would refer to my baseline mental state as being “racy.”  I was in a constant state of “run-mination.” I would segue seamlessly from obsessing over yesterday’s race performance to agonizing over next week’s. Not conducive to sleep!

Losing races by two-minutes-and-then-some to my erstwhile within-seconds-close competition was a nasty dose to choke down. Though I’ve found its aftertaste, oddly, far less unpleasant than I’d have expected: A sweet side-effect of the bitter pill being the blessed release of pressure in my “racy” mind.  No more torturing myself trying to stay on top. I’ve fallen so far behind my former pack that these days I content myself with placing a less-distant second or third of four than I did last week. Which I may or may not be able to do tomorrow. I admit, I still do wonder, as ever: What will I pace? Where will I place?

Guess I’ll just have to I’ll sleep on it.

Postmortem: My “record-setting” 8:46 pace in the race stole the slowpoke-of-the-season prize from my erstwhile worst of December 17th. Just as I’ve fallen yet further behind the champs of my cohort, so have my “racy” days been left in the dust, the pathetic shreds of performance pressure having fled with the fleet feet of the front-runners. Which welcome relief on the one front is countered by the resurgence of despair occasioned by the relentless devolution in performance. The double upshot of which—increased depression/decreased anxiety—is that I’m now sleeping better than ever.