In the wee, small hours of the morning

Sleep has been in short supply this week, for no reason I can discern. I've always been kind of a poor sleeper, but this has largely been solved over the last few years by medication and general improvement in mood.

At my worst, I was getting about an hour or two of tortured sleep a night. Lying awake, worrying about the world ending, or lack of money, or if I was a failure as a human being, or if I had sent the newspaper to press without any advertising, or - a personal favourite - replaying all the conversations I had had that day and cataloguing the ways in which I had made a fool of myself.

The world is a crummy, crummy place on lack of sleep. Being in your 20s is bad enough without adding the distorted prism of drama that we all seem to embody at that age, together with just enough shut eye to be upright, but not enough to actually have conversations.

Insomnia means not having quite as thick a skin as you would normally. It means taking things a little more personally than you ought to. It means not grasping easy concepts, and feeling like an idiot.

And the worst, absolute worst, is that insomnia is the loneliest feeling in the world. I don't get lonely, as a rule. It's one of the core tenets of Liz, which is not always a good thing, but that's a post for a different day, perhaps. But being awake when the world is asleep, and not having a reason for being awake, is just brutally alone-making.

So I suppose I should be grateful that this bout of wakefulness is a blip, and probably has more to do with too much tv than anything dire. That my mind is more clear, and less fraught and anxious. That I'm more able to take the anxious thoughts I do have and place them into context, and not be swept away by them. And that I can put out a hand in the dark and touch a sleepy cat, or lie still and be soothed by someone else's breathing, and feel a little better.