It all began in a galaxy far, far away…known as Indiana. I was sixteen at the time, and I was a sophomore in high school. I was a straight A student and Perfectionist Extraordinaire. I had my whole life mapped out ahead of me. I was going to continue to get A’s, I was going to get into a good college out of state, I was going to get good grades there, I was going to go to grad school and then I was going to get a job, be fantastically successful and have lots and lots of cats. Maybe I’d acquire a husband along the way. Maybe.

Ok, so that’s not entirely true.  Most of it, however, is.  Like the cat part, that was absolutely true.  (Kidding, I only want one or two.  While discouragement stimulates me, I don’t think my self-esteem could handle the rejection and dismissal of lots of cats.)

Anyway, my sleep problems hit in late January of my sophomore year.  My father would later remind me that I’ve never exactly been a Sleeping Pro (I am a divisional champion in Napping, though) and that I had Issues long before this, but I pinpoint this time as when my body completely rebelled.

I can’t even say that it came on gradually.  In retrospect, there probably was some indication that I didn’t notice because I had never dealt with insomnia, but it’s been so long that I can’t even remember.  It seemed like it just happened all of a sudden, as in I suddenly couldn’t sleep.  At all.  I was tired–oh, how I was tired; I cannot convey the magnitude of exhaustion I felt–but I couldn’t sleep.  At first, it was a tiny dose of ecstasy.  A small dose of sleep deprivation, at least for me, produces somewhat of a natural high.  Beyond that, it was fantastic–my productivity level skyrocketed.  I got ahead of my studies.  I had free time to actually enjoy myself.

It was short-lived, though.  I depleted my energy levels quite quickly by pushing myself and taking advantage of my sleepless hours.  Soon, the ecstasy left and I was left feeling almost paralyzed.  Every movement required concentration that I didn’t possess, as did speech.  Attempting to pay attention in class was pointless.  I ended up writing and doodling on paper, what I never knew; my hand seemed to move of its own volition.  I carried on conversations with friends, I did as much homework and studying as I physically could, but I wasn’t cognitively present during any of it.  I wouldn’t remember any of it.  My short-term memory was virtually nonexistent around the 70 hour mark.  I couldn’t remember anything.  I was in a complete daze, completely encapsulated in my own mind and completely incapable of escape.

That was also about the time that I started hallucinating.  Prior to experiencing hallucinations, I naively thought that they sounded neat.  I immediately changed my mind once I actually did experience them.  There are fewer things more frightening than your own mind turning on you, especially in light of the fact that you can’t do anything to stop it.

My father had a very large potted plant that he kept in our living room.  He called the plant George.  I think it was a hibiscus, but I’m not certain on that.  Every time I walked by George, I saw his tendrils reach out to grab me.  George seemed to be dancing and reaching out to wrap around my wrists and pull me to him.  It absolutely frightened me.

Whenever I opened my locker at school and knelt down to get books, the arms of my jacket tried to wrap themselves around my neck and strangle me.  At some point–I can’t really remember when–I seemed to realize that I needed sleep.  I didn’t really seem to recognize that it had been a few days since I last slept, because my mind was too far gone by that point to realize that I hadn’t been doing something so biologically necessary, but I managed to connect the exhaustion with sleep.  Sleep would make it go away.  That’s all my mind was able to process.  So, I went to bed and tried to sleep.  It was futile, because sleep wouldn’t come.  If anything, and this still holds true for me today, lying in bed unable to sleep actually made matters worse.  My sheets tangled in my legs, holding them–and in extension, me–and I began panicking.  In my mind, I heard, “You. Don’t. Get. To. Sleep.”  Over and over again.  I didn’t try to again.

I just remember being absolutely petrified after that, because I didn’t know what this was and I didn’t know how long it was going to last.  I didn’t know how long it had lasted at that point, much less when it would stop, and being so lost to reality already by that point, it seemed inconceivable to me that it ever would stop.

It continued to get progressively worse, and I honestly wish I could detail more of that time, but I can’t.  I simply don’t remember it.  Past the third day, I remember nothing beyond vague moments of panic surrounded by a haze of…well, nothing.  I wound up not sleeping for nearly five full days.  I think I was about seven hours away from hitting the five-day mark.  Then I finally just collapsed.  I slept for about sixteen hours after that.

I handled the whole thing terribly.  Granted, I suppose I handled it actually quite well considering my age and my inexperience, but I handled it alone.  (I’d like to say that I wouldn’t necessarily do that now, but there’s a decent chance that I’d do the same thing.)  I didn’t tell anyone, not even my own father.  I didn’t know what was going on.  I was scared and panicked, and in many ways, I was afraid to actually find out.  It seemed less daunting to not know.  I was afraid it wouldn’t end, but I hoped that it would.  In my mind, telling someone what was going on was tantamount to making it real, and if it was real, then that seemed worse.  It was real, but I couldn’t exactly grasp that.  At that point, I wasn’t really sure what was and what wasn’t.  I’m still surprised that no one really seemed to suspect anything at the time other than mere exhaustion, but no one did.

I did eventually end up telling my father after those five days ended, and he brought me to my doctor.  That was largely unhelpful, because my parents had divorced in December of that year, and she immediately chalked it up to depression.  She tried to convince my father and myself that I was depressed over my parents’ divorce, and she refused to consider any other alternative.  I was told that I’m a stereotypical overachiever who works too much and too hard and that all that stress was too much for a teenage girl to handle, much less add a parental divorce into the equation.  I hadn’t exhibited symptoms of insomnia before, and the fact that it happened months after my parents’ divorce was no coincidence.  So, I was put on an anti-depressant.  (Yes, at that young an age.  Without follow-up visits to check on how I was handling the medication–you know, the family of medication known for contributing to suicidal thoughts & tendencies among teenagers and that is supposed to be closely moderated?  Yup.  That.)

And that was my first run-in with medical intervention for my sleep issues.