Autism & Insomnia

 I don't sleep well.  

After years of hospital night shifts, babies and an autistic insomniac kiddo, I'm kinda suspicious of people who close their eyes and immediatly sink into oblivion.  

For eight ridiculous hours.  

I mean, what kinda weirdo sleeps for eight hours???

Sleepers are sorta smug fuckers.  They talk about sleep hygiene as if room temperature and meditation will recalibrate my broken pineal gland.  There's an implicit subtext of blame that I'm doing something wrong if I can't obediently nod off.  But when my melatonin making machinery is in the bin, along with my ability to tolerate valerian-laced tea (tastes like feet), I get to ignore the finger wagging.  

Oddly enough, the sleep gurus never include advice on recalibrating a giant (albeit gorgeous) autistic man-child who considers sleepiness a personal challenge.  They also never advise on how incredibly loud his feet are at 4am.

But there's a really cool upside to insomnia.

One of my greatest pleasures in life is drinking tea in bed, in the dead of night, when the house is silent.  I get to experience a depth of serenity that eludes me during daylight hours.

I hear the fridge humming.  I see faint bars of light and hazy refelctions in the darkness.  I feel the warmth of my husband's hand on my belly.  I feel the weight of the duvet wrap each toe.  I hear and feel at the edge of awareness.

Silence is crowded with ordinary magic.

No pressing jobs scream for my attention.  There are no constant, heavy footsteps.  There is no echolalia.  There is an absence of anxiety over the whereabouts of my boy.  Gadgets are powered down.  Urgent red lights have snuffed shut on tv screens.  

I listen to the dogs shift in their baskets downstairs.  The air tastes soft, sweet, velvety.  I am aware of the vast, dreaming sky arced outside my window.  Somewhere, I hear a fox cry.

Sometimes, I hear Finian talk in his sleep.  I wonder what he dreams about.

Sleep would rob me of this experience.  I'll take my joy where I find it.