Deprifun

Archive for the ‘Sleep (or the lack thereof)’ Category

I need sheep! Lots of sheep. An uncountable number of sheep.

Is there even such a thing as an uncountable number? The concept is too complicated for me to ponder upon after a sleepless night, but I would like to launch an appeal: would my readers kindly send me a few sheep? Now, I don’t have an uncountable number of readers, but I do have a few, and if each of them sent me one sheep, I think I would have more than enough.

You might wonder what I want to do with all the sheep, and the answer is, I want to count them of course, duh! With two chairs and a broom I have already built a little fence at the foot of my bed, that the helpful creatures can jump to their hearts delight.

They will be the fittest sheep ever, because I can’t sleep very well these days – make it weeks – actually, make it months; it seems like I can sleep soundly only on my bench, but that’s 20 km away from my flat, plus has been unreachable all winter long because of the snow and it’s currently underwater because of the floods, so I can’t really depend on that.

I have also tried all the natural remedies I could find, including no caffeine in the afternoon (hello zombie!) , long hot baths before bed (managed to faint but not to sleep), herbal pills (repeat as a mantra “this smells like ripe cheese, NOT like unwashed feet”), no arguing with my bed partner (Mr. Pillow was very understanding), but nothing. So I am going for the ultimate remedy: counting sheep!

The sheep need to be as non-descript as possible, so if my insomnia proves an especially hard nut to crack, I can put them on rotation and it will work better if I can’t tell one from the other. So just your basic, fluffy, white sheep, I hope you can spare one or two?

Also I would like them to be a cheerful bunch – err – flock, because, did you know? Sheep can get depression, too. It usually happens when they lose a lamb, the poor things – the Internet is full of sad stories of mothers grieving and not eating, and stinking (I guess it makes sense – depression stinks), and losing all their wool.

However, I know very well that depression can strike with no warning, and I’m not one to abandon a companion only because she’s not funny anymore, so I have done some pre-emptive research, and luckily I have discovered that if one of my previously cheerful sheep falls pray to depression there is a cure.

According to a forum I visited, the somewhat surprising remedy consists in clothing the mournfully bleating and now naked sheep in a green polo neck jumper. The reason why the colour must be green is pretty straightforward: green is the colour of mental health awareness. But the polo neck is a matter of some debate. You could argue that this is a nod to the Marco Polo sheep breed, a species that lives wild and in the mountains of central Asia and that boasts the longest horns of any breed of sheep, probably making its representatives an object of admiration among sheepfolk and thus a source of inspiration for the depressed sheep; or that it is a reminder of the peculiar Kyrgyz version of horse polo, kok-boru, which consists in using, instead of a ball, the headless body of a sheep.

Here I guess that the idea is reminding the depressed sheep that there are sheep who have it waaay worse than her. Don’t we all get that? How many helpful people come to those who have depression and argue: “How can you be sad? So-and-So has cancer!”

Euh… yes, thank you, Helpful Person, and that should make me ecstatic, I guess. I was never sure why I should rejoice at the misfortune of  others, probably something along the lines of “better her than me”???

But back to the sheep. Could you ship me a sheep (that’s terrible, I know – but have I mentioned that I was up all night?)? Pretty please? With sugar on top?

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I had a dream.

Last night I dreamed that I was with a friend of mine (that one who made me invisible, shall we call him Blasted Thing, or BT for short) – apparently, I had managed to get hold of him! I wish I knew how, but I seem to have missed the previous episodes. Anyway, we were in a mall or something, and Anne Hathaway (??? What was she doing in a mall dressed as a cigar lady?) approached me and started screaming IT IS YOUR BIRTHDAYYYYYYY! And there were glitter or balloons or confetti or flower petals, I’m not sure. I patiently explained to her that she was mistaken, that it wasn’t my birthday at all, and she looked so disappointed. And then the BT butted in and said, “But you know what, we will pretend and do as if it were your birthday, so what would you like to do?” I was speechless with joy! And I was thinking of all the things we could do, like doing breakfast, or lunch in a nice place, or dinner, or cinema, or a walk, or a museum, or just sit there and stare in each other’s eyes, and I opened my lips to utter my wish, and…

…and then some real life neighbour decided that since it was kind of dawn-ish already it was the perfect time to drill the wall and wake me up, and lo-and-behold, I was speechless no more!

I am sure that they had gotten their new power drill for their birthday and were anxious to try it. And I bet they were hanging another present they had gotten, a picture. In all likelihood, the picture of a duck. Incidentally, guess what? Ducks can get depressed, too, and then they’re Depressed Ducks, which is so nicely alliterative.

By the way, did you know that? Depressed people dream more. Something about worrying more, and desperately trying to fix the cause for anxiety with dreams, and that’s why they wake up exhausted.

I must say, I haven’t noticed any difference lately, and my dreams were always, from what I hear from other persons, especially vivid and detailed; most people don’t even believe me, when I tell them some of my most elaborate dreams.

What has changed though, is that nightmares are still nightmares, but now happy dreams are nightmares, too. Because I always dream that no, that I was so silly, and that it was all a misunderstanding, and that everything is alright, and then I wake up all relieved and realise it was just a dream. And really this is worse than a regular nightmare, where at least you wake up to find out that the monster who chased you through the whole of Dreamville doesn’t really exist, and you are safely in your bed, and any monsters under it would have died aeons ago, choked by the ferocious dust bunnies.

I guess that waking up in a murderous rage like today makes for a welcome change.


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