Insomnia Simply Sucks...

Insomnia, the Air Force, and Me

Mike Hooker — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 22:10:06 +0000

“Mike, going back in the service is probably the best thing you could do right now,” a former brother-in-law said to me. The year was 1982, and the American economy was in the tank–again. Another recession. The current economy, however, makes the 1982 recession look like a hiccup on the financial spectrum.

For the first three months of ’82 I continued working at an independent auto repair shop in Marion, Illinois. I was working 50-50 commission and business was down. I was barely making enough money to keep the bills paid. In the meantime, my wife lost her bank job. At that point I hadn’t officially enlisted a second time in the Air Force. As I’ve written before, I wasn’t 100 percent sure that’s what I should do.

My insomnia continued wreaking havoc in my life. Some nights I would sit on the living room couch in one spot the whole night and, as usual, face the next day as a zombie. By then I’d already had two years of experience as an insomniac. But regardless of the length of time with insomnia, a zombie is still a zombie. The detrimental effects of insomnia are as severe after two years as they are after the first night, if not more so because of its compounding effect.

The downturn in the economy, my wife losing her job, and me working straight commission pretty much told me that the military was the best option. Now, at age 56, I can look back over my life and realize that most of the time I’ve taken the easy way out of the problems I’ve faced. Going back enlisted was easier than attending college for two more years, taking ROTC courses, and becoming an officer.

As I wrote about here, in 1978 I tested for promotion to staff sergeant (E-5, four stripes) and had been selected with a promotion number of 10,509. I would have been promoted on July 1, 1979. However, I chose to leave the Air Force on May 21, 1979, at the end of my four-year enlistment, which canceled my promotion. I missed being a staff sergeant by five weeks.

Being discharged before my promotion date in 1979 meant that I was going to have to enlist in 1982 as a sergeant (E-4, three stripes) and then test again for promotion to staff sergeant after I’d served the minimum amount of time as a sergeant.

In my second enlistment, I served as a sergeant under staff sergeants who were either in basic training or had just one or two stripes when I had my first number for promotion to staff sergeant. I swallowed a lot of pride.

I tested again in November of 1982, was selected for promotion a second time, and finally put on my staff stripe on July 1, 1983, exactly four years to the day after I would have put it on originally. It was nice to be promoted, but it wasn’t the same as it would have been four years earlier. I wore it for three months and left the military again after only eighteen months into my second hitch. But that’s another story I’ll cover in future posts.

Still not knowing that going back in the service was the right thing to do, on April 4, 1982, I did it anyway: I signed my contract with the Federal Government, raised my right hand, and swore an oath of allegiance to fight for the my country, even to death if need be. I was really hoping my insomnia would go away after enlisting the second time. After all, the recession would no longer affect me, my wife wouldn’t have to work, and I would no longer be working on commission. How naive I was! Insomnia that severe doesn’t go away overnight. In fact, it became worse after my return to active duty.

I enlisted on April 4 but couldn’t report to tech school before April 27, so I went on three weeks’ leave immediately. That three-week period was misery. It left me with too much time to consider whether or not I’d made the right decision. And, worst of all, my insomnia didn’t let up.

Also, in the back of my mind was the fact that I was going to wear three stripes instead of the two gold bars I would have if I’d graduated from college and been commissioned a second lieutenant. It’s said in the military that second lieutenants get no respect from anyone–enlisted or officer.

But those gold bars would have earned me more respect, not to mention more income, than three stripes did. My decision to take the enlisted route back to active duty rather than the commissioned-officer route has bothered me to this day. It’s another one of the many wrong decisions I’ve made in life.

When I re-entered active duty, my insomnia was going strong. It’s an underlying theme that ties together all the many aspects of my life, military and civilian. Other than my thirty-six-year marriage, it’s about the only thing that has been consistent in my adult life. I wonder nearly every day what my life would have been like if I’d never developed this dreadful condition.

I will never know.

“Shut up! Don’t talk to me! I didn’t sleep last night.”

Mike Hooker — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 19:06:11 +0000

The title of this post was a barrage of stinging words I hurled at my daughter one morning. The people we insomniacs love the most often bear the brunt of our frustration from sleeplessness. Hiding insomnia is not easy to do.

Occasional insomnia might be concealable. But I think chronic insomnia is difficult to mask. I’ve rarely been able to camouflage mine, especially to those who know me personally. We insomniacs know our condition is a bigger creature than we ourselves are. It’s all-encompassing; no area of life goes untouched. Insomnia causes grouchiness and irritability, and then the three unite in a joint effort to wreak havoc in our lives.

In the mid- to late-1980s and into the early 1990s I worked as a service tech at a Chevrolet-Cadillac dealership in Marion, Illinois. Back then I took a dalmane capsule nearly every night but still didn’t sleep as much as I needed. One morning my service manager, Roger, handed me a work order to change an engine in a front-wheel-drive Cadillac.

I didn’t want the job and couldn’t believe he assigned it to me. What I did next would have gotten me fired from any other dealership. But Roger was one of the most laid-back service managers for whom I’ve ever worked, even when it concerned my appalling behavior peaked by insomnia and horrid prescription drugs.

I had what is known in the business as a “refrigerator” toolbox. They’re a bottom box and a top box that when combined form the size of a refrigerator. I had both boxes bolted together to form one large tool box. I opened the top box, gripped the front of it with both hands, and shook it so hard from front to back that the wheels lifted off of the floor with each push and pull. I had so much pint-up energy from both the dalmane and the insomnia (and the fact that I hated the automotive repair business) that I guess I had strength beyond normal at that moment.

After my tool-rattling tirade I grabbed a chair, stormed out of the service department, leaned back against the outside wall, and sat there for thirty minutes–on the clock. After I’d cooled off some, I went back to the Cadillac and kicked the front license plate several times with my right foot, bending the plate out of shape–but I didn’t care. After a while, I settled down and changed the engine. I guess if I’d had an assault rifle with me that morning, I could have easily gone postal. It’s good that I’ve never had an interest in guns and have never owned one. Lack of sleep and vicious prescribed drugs cause you to say things and act in ways you’d never do otherwise.

Later, as a graduate student in the mid-1990s, (I went to grad school at age 37 and with a family in-tow.) In 1994 I was getting, on average, maybe an hour of sleep per night. I was miserable, actually beyond miserable, but I tried my hardest to keep it from my fellow students and co-workers. I was no longer taking dalmane, so I didn’t have that chemical in my system to cause additional problems.

I never tried to hide it from my family, though. One morning after little sleep the night before, I was walking my then nine-year-old daughter to school. She said something to me; I don’t remember what, but I snapped and said, “Shut up! Don’t talk to me! I didn’t sleep last night.”

She didn’t say another word. But I know I hurt her feelings that morning. I would never have said that if I’d had a “normal” night’s sleep of six to eight hours. I don’t know if she’s forgotten that morning, but I haven’t. I’ll carry the burden of hurting her that day for the rest of my life. That was my sleep-deprived brain speaking through me, not the real me. This is proof of what insomnia does to the members of a family with one who suffers from chronic insomnia. It’s a patently horrible condition that eats away at you and your family’s members one bite at a time.

As a graduate student, I worked 36 hours per week for the school’s landscaping department. We were a large department with every tool and machine needed to care for the school’s campus, family-housing units, and off-campus properties. As with most institutions of higher learning, the president received special treatment. The landscaping department stored the wood used in the president’s home fireplace and kept his wood rack stocked so he’d have wood when he wanted it or needed it.

One day, with little sleep and after scoring poorly on a test, I went to work early, said not one word to anybody, grabbed an axe, walked out of the building and around to the woodpile, raised the tool over my head and with every ounce of strength I could muster, slammed it into a chunk of wood. Normally, I’d never chop wood. If you’ve ever chopped it you know it’s hard, physical work, the kind of work I don’t like. But that day I needed the energy relief that chopping offered.

Chronic insomnia is like a cancer that consumes one’s emotional, physical, and mental arenas. And unless you have Fatal Familial Insomnia (FFI), it won’t kill you, but it sure has the power to make you wish you were dead.

Insomnia and Indecision: Two Factors Guaranteed to Mess Up Your Life

Mike Hooker — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 05:43:36 +0000

I’d dropped out of college and quit my job at K-Mart. What was I going to do? I had no idea. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to go back to work as a mechanic–I’d had enough busted knuckles.

Neither did I want the grease-packed fingernails that were dead giveaways of someone who turned wrenches for a living. And not only fingernails, but the creases in my hands and fingers trapped the same nasty stuff. I didn’t want the cuts, scrapes, scratches, burns, and harsh chemicals associated with that kind of work. But most of all, I didn’t want to be known as a car mechanic. In my mind, working on cars carried with it a stigma of social disgrace, something of which I wanted no part.

But I needed a job. It was at this time when I started thinking about returning to the Air Force on the enlisted side, rather than as an officer as I would have if I’d stayed in college. I contacted the local Air Force recruiter, and I essentially had to start over as if I’d never been in the service before. I had to take the ASVAB (armed services vocational aptitude battery, the written test for enlistees) again. I passed. Then he sent me to St. Louis, Missouri, to take another physical. I passed that, too. At the time, however, the Air Force had no open jobs for which I was qualified and in which I was interested. So I remained a civilian, but only for a while longer.

In the meantime, friends who worked in the service department at the local Chevrolet dealership told me about an independent auto repair shop where the owner was taking applications for a mechanic position that had been vacated. Should I or should I not apply?

I didn’t want to. I’d rather have submitted to water torture or have splinters driven under my nails than to apply. But, I also had to consider the fact that the U.S. economy was in a recession in 1981, and companies were downsizing in large numbers. (It seems as though this country is in recession more than it’s not.) Rather than mess with resumes, cover letters, and interviews in trying to find a job outside of automotive repair, I decided to take the easy way out and apply. The application consisted of my name and address on piece of paper. I started the next week.

The shop measured 40 ft. by 72 ft.–large enough to service cars, but it was built without any racks. Why the owner didn’t install at least one is beyond me. If you’ve ever worked on cars for a living, you know that not having a rack means you do everything under the car on a creeper. And if you’re paid on straight commission, working on your back under a vehicle takes longer, much longer, which means your paycheck is smaller, much smaller. This job reinforced in me the need to re-enter the military, although I wasn’t sure that’s what I should do. My feeling of ambivalence stuck with me for the next few months, even after I was back on active duty.

After a month of greasy fingers and country music, I called the recruiter and told him to find me something. I said I’d take any job except a cop or a cook. He phoned a few days later and said, “Mike, I’ve got you a job as an aircraft repair specialist if you want it at Mt. Home Air Force Base, Idaho. Your tech school class won’t start until April next year, though.” I said, “I’ll take it.” Going back enlisted didn’t have the right “feel” to it, but I did it anyway. So I gave my new boss my five-month notice. He didn’t fire me; he said I could work there for as long as I needed.

During this time my insomnia continued to get worse. I have the most remarkable inability to make good life-changing decisions, an inability which has played a large part in causing my sleeplessness. Having no direction in life has caused me many wide-awake nights over the years. And now at age 55 I find myself paying for occupational choices (mistakes) I made at earlier ages.

One Tuesday night in September of that year I lay awake all night. I called in the next morning and took the day off, which was the first time I’d ever missed work or school because of insomnia. I’d previously mentioned to my boss that I had difficulty sleeping. He understood. He said there wasn’t much work to do that day anyway.

I was still taking dalmane, which didn’t help my situation much. It made me sleep, but it was not the deep, restorative sleep I needed. The fact that it made me want to kill people was not a good trade off for the poor quality of sleep it offered. I didn’t know it then, but dalmane was adding to my sleeplessness rather than helping it. Its half-life was long enough to cause the pint-up energy that I was not expending through physical exercise, which, in turn, caused me to be restless and jittery and, thus, sleepless.

Also, I relied on caffeine and sugar for energy during the day so I could function. But, then, at night I had residual effects from them which, when added to my sedentary lifestyle, caused even more problems. I proved many times that insomnia feeds on itself in a vicious cycle: Awake at night, take stimulants during the day, awake at night, take stimulants during the day. Day in, day out. I’ve read recently where scientists are now linking insomnia with shorter life spans. I certainly understand why.

Making Life-Changing Decisions with Chronic Insomnia

Mike Hooker — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 21:40:57 +0000

The direction of my life changed in the summer of 1981, and not for the better. I’ve written about when my insomnia started in 1979. After two years, it controlled my life with its iron grip and kept me in a continuous headlock. Today, as I look back over my life with insomnia, it seems that about 95 percent of the decisions I’ve made have turned out to be wrong for one reason or another. I consider the decision I made that summer to be one of my all-time worst, as you’ll read about in a moment.

I graduated with my associate’s degree in May of that year. Several times during the spring semester, I’d stopped by the Air Force ROTC detachment to talk about going back in the service as an officer. The process of getting into ROTC was simple: I had to score at a certain percentile on the Air Force Officer Qualifying Test and then take a physical. I passed both. I also had to supply them with a copy of my DD Form 214 showing that I’d been honorably discharged from active duty, and a current transcript.

They told me that my score was high enough to apply for pilot training. That caught me by surprise. Me, a pilot? I really couldn’t see that happening. From my perspective, pilots were intellectuals who majored in math or electrical engineering or some other brain-draining curriculum. I wasn’t in that league. I was an automotive major; monkeys could be trained to work on cars.

The sergeant responsible for helping me attain successful admission into their program looked at my transcript and said, “Look at all of those A’s.” And I said, “It’s automotive technology. Anybody can make A’s. It’d be different if I were a chemistry or a biology major and had lots of A’s. That would really mean something.” Then he said, “But you’ve excelled in your chosen field.” I didn’t say it, but I thought “So what? It’s a low-level curriculum designed for those who have difficulty learning from books.” Granted, my automotive training was before on-board computers. It’s my guess that automotive curricula are more difficult today with computers controlling nearly every aspect of an automobile.

So I was enrolled in Aerospace Science for the fall semester of ’81. I’d be a second lieutenant in only four more semesters. Wow! I couldn’t wait. I’d be on my way to a good 20-year retirement, as a major at least.

Back then, however, I had a phobia about writing. The service manager, Larry G., at the dealership where I worked the summer of ’79 went through the university’s vocational education program. The same one that I was going to take after I completed my automotive degree. He told me that one of his courses required him to write an 80-page research paper. So I changed my major for my bachelor’s degree from vocational education to industrial technology–another bad choice.

After I was admitted to ROTC, and after I was registered for the fall semester, one of my automotive instructors told me that a new K-Mart was opening–in my hometown, actually. The automotive service manager, Peter–a graduate of the same automotive tech program as I, was looking for qualified applicants to staff his department, and if I was interested I should apply before the positions were filled. So I did. Peter hired me, and I started immediately.

Now for the life-changing event…

I can’t remember why, other than for the medication I was taking illegally, but I changed my mind about enrolling in ROTC and dropped it before the summer was out. What a stupid, stupid choice. I’ve beaten myself up over that decision ever since. I chose a $5-an-hour job as a K-Mart mechanic over Air Force ROTC and a commission as an officer. And, on top of that, once the fall semester started, I discovered that I couldn’t stand industrial technology and withdrew from school three weeks into the semester, forfeiting one semester of my GI Bill and my Illinois Veteran’s Scholarship.

Also, I hated my job at K-Mart and quit in August. That’s the only job that I’ve quit “on the spot.” I told the new service manager, “Today’s my last day, and I’m not coming back.” I loaded my tools in my father-in-law’s Ford F-150 and left.

So, there I was. No longer working, no longer in college, and, worst of all, I would never become an Air Force officer.

I’ve told this anecdote to say this…my insomnia played a big part in my life that summer. I couldn’t think straight. As I’ve written about in a previous post, I’d recently discovered that my dad had a prescription for dalmane, the same drug the Veteran’s Administration doctor had prescribed for me two years earlier. My dad got his medicine for free because he was a coal miner in the United Mine Workers of America union. With my discovery, I would grab a few pills every time I was at my parents’ house. They knew I was taking them; I wasn’t stealing.

I was taking the drug illegally, however, because I didn’t have a prescription for it; I hadn’t sought a doctor’s counsel for more than the 30 pills of my original prescription. Dalmane has a long half life–as much as a hundred hours or more–so I was compounding my problem with each pill I swallowed.

But the dalmane was making my situation worse instead of better. It made me sleep, but it also made me angry. It changed my personality and behavior from a level-headed, quiet guy to a deranged monster ready to fight. I hated life and everything and everybody associated with it. With dalmane, I was a walking time bomb ready to explode at any moment. I was taking this drug at the same time I was making major life decisions. Not a good thing to do. I would go on to take dalmane illegally for another eight years.

Insomnia simply sucks the life right out of you regardless of your station in life. It doesn’t care who you are or where you live or work. It’s powerful in ways that the ordinary, successful sleeper cannot imagine. If I’ve learned anything in the intervening years since that summer, it’s this: Decisions made early in life can definitely affect you later in life.

Can Insomnia and Bliss Co-exist in an Insomniac’s Life?

Mike Hooker — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 21:15:06 +0000

Before I get into insomnia and bliss, let me tell you how I arrived at their crossroads. During the last 20+ years, due to my interest in writing creative non-fiction, I’ve developed an additional interest in the study of literature, American literature more specifically. This past Christmas my wife bought me a self-study course titled “The Art of Reading,” taught by Dr. Timothy Spurgin, professor of English literature at Lawrence University in Appleton, Wisconsin, and published by The Teaching Company as part of their series–The Great Courses: Teaching that engages the mind.

In lecture seven of the course, Dr. Spurgin discusses the use of irony and ambiguity in literary fiction. He uses the short story, “Bliss,” by noted early 20th-century short-story writer, Katherine Mansfield, as an example of irony. The title, Bliss, sent me on a thinking tangent: Can insomnia and bliss co-exist in an insomniac’s life?

I applied dictionary.com’s definition of bliss, “supreme happiness; utter joy or contentment: [such as in] wedded bliss,” to a recent bout of insomnia.

I’ve written before about a position within my company–one for which I’d applied but for which I was never considered because of a glitch in my supplementary application–and how it affected my sleep. Fast-forward three months, and the same position once again appeared in the computer system. I re-applied, but this time my manager and I checked off each required item so the same situation wouldn’t be repeated.

It was December 1 and the application had to be in by 5 p.m. on Friday, December 3, 2010. Rather than send the packet through company mail, I drove it to the hiring manager’s office and handed it to his receptionist. So, for the next two weeks, I experienced the same feelings that I’d had the first time: the wondering, the mental torment, the stomach butterflies. I received an acceptance letter on December 15 from the hiring manager, with a start date of January 16, 2011. I could accept or reject the offer; I signed it as accepted and sent it back to him. Finally, I’d made it. Little did I know, however, that that was only the first hoop through which I’d have to jump before I could actually perform the duties of the new position.

Since December is considered “peak time,” my station’s senior manager required me to remain there for 30 days. I understood, even though I was ready to go in mid-December. On January 12, I learned that I needed a physical and drug test, and I couldn’t transfer until the drug test results were posted in the computer system. So on the 13th I reported for my physical and test. The results usually take only a couple of days to post. Mine, though, took longer.

For the next eight days, I hung in limbo. My current station managers considered me already gone, but the hiring manager couldn’t consider me in his unit until the drug screen posted. My future manager and I communicated each day by phone or email; each day revealed the same thing–no posting. Time passed. I knew I needed to get serious, so on December 21, with input from four managers, I finally found out what the problem was.

One manager made several phone calls to various “people in the know,” within our company and one person–only one person–knew what had happened. He told us that someone at the medical clinic had marked my specimen as “random” instead of “change of position.” For whatever reason, that kept my drug screen from posting. He said that it would post in about 35 minutes. He was right. I phoned my new manager with the good news. He checked his computer and said “You’re in.” Sweeter words have never been spoken. All this only to arrive at another hoop.

I started the “book part” of training for my new position on January 24. The next week, January 31 through February 4, my trainer wanted me at work by 7 a.m. every day. Well, considering that I’ve worked second shift for the past six years, being there at 7 required great effort. I was suddenly under pressure to sleep, a stress I hadn’t felt for a long time. Most insomniacs, under pressure to sleep, can’t.

I did okay, considering. I slept about four hours a night that week except on February 2. That night I fell asleep at 2 a.m. and was up again at 4:30 to start the new day. Yes, it’s true: some insomniacs would kill for two and a half hours of sleep. As I’ve done many times in years past, I made it through the day–dead on my feet with slow timing, as I wrote about in my last post.

Perhaps the biggest hoop of all is knowing that I can fail at any point along the way and have to return to my former station and job. Having that in the back of my mind certainly adds to the stress level. I don’t plan to fail, but I don’t have the final say on whether or not I make it. I should know in about three weeks.

So, can insomnia and bliss co-exist in an insomniac’s life? I can speak only for myself, but I’ve felt no bliss at all in the process I’ve been through. Even the high point of receiving the acceptance letter did little to create a blissful feeling, based on the definition above. The effects of insomnia out weigh any feelings of bliss in my case. I suppose to a non-insomniac, that last sentence sounds negative. But that’s the way it is. That’s the power that insomnia has.

It’s my guess that I’ll have more bad nights before I’m finished with my training. I hope not, but I probably will.

Can Insomnia Cause Retarded Timing?

Mike Hooker — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 17:30:20 +0000

Insomnia sucks however you look at it. It strikes without warning. For example, the past two nights have been bad ones for me. For whatever reason, I’ve slept again in what I call shifts. This is where I fall asleep easily when my head hits the pillow, but I awaken two or three or four hours later and can’t go back to sleep. So I get up and read and a couple of hours later, I can once again fall asleep.

Sleeping in shifts, while I end up with enough sleep to get me through the day, doesn’t provide a restful sleep. It’s difficult to explain to non-insomniacs what this is like. But I’ll try…

For me, I seem to go throughout the next day about 5 to 10 seconds behind in my thinking. Whatever I do doesn’t register in my brain until a few seconds later. Sometimes my timing catches up late in the day. Sometimes it doesn’t.

When I worked in automotive repair, which is now many years ago, engines had distributors to send spark to the spark plugs. Inside an internal combustion engine the spark has to arrive in the cylinder a few degrees of crankshaft rotation before the piston reaches top dead center. This is set by the ignition timing using a timing light (in a distributor system).

Sometimes the timing can get out of adjustment from a number of causes, and usually when this happens it’s what is referred at “retarded timing.” When the timing is retarded the engine runs poorly, causing a decrease in fuel mileage, an increase in emissions, and frustration for the driver.

If that seems too technical, think about a hunter shooting at a bird (even though I detest the killing of birds). He or she has to aim the gun in front of the bird (lead it) before pulling the trigger so the “timing,” when the shot hits the bird, will be right. This is known as “lead time.”

Anyway, when I sleep in shifts, I feel as though my timing is retarded the next day. I’m sluggish; I have no lead time. I can’t think as quickly as I would like. When someone speaks to me I have to stop and concentrate on what was just said before I realize what they’ve said. I know this is hard to understand; it’s even harder for me to describe.

What I’m describing takes only milliseconds in reality. But inside my head it seems to take about 5 to 10 seconds. It’s like living in another dimension, so to speak. Like an episode of The Twilight Zone. No one has ever said anything to me about it, and since I cannot view myself in action, I don’t know how I appear to them. But I must appear to be a little slow of thought. Maybe not.

It’s all in the life of one insomniac. If you’re an insomniac, I’m sure you have your own stories to tell.

Feel free to leave a comment.

Mike

What Does Turning 55 Really Mean?

Mike Hooker — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 22:45:09 +0000

Today, Oct. 3, is my birthday. I’m 55. According to AARP I’m now a senior citizen. About all that means is that I’m eligible for a discount at IHOP. I don’t eat there often enough for their discount to make much of a difference in my life.

What does turning 55 years old really mean? What do I have to show for that many years of life? In my case, quite a bit of the stuff that matters most in life.

For one, it means that I’ve now been married for 35 years–to the same woman, no less. How she’s put up with me all these years is remarkable. We’re living proof that marriage doesn’t have to end in divorce. A long marriage provides for a nearly indescribable stable life. Of course, we’ve had the ups and downs that occur over the years, but they’re nothing that can’t be overcome with the stability of a strong marriage. I’m blessed to have such a great wife.

For two, in my case, it means that I have a daughter who is now 27. Okay, I know. Simply having a 27-year-old child is no big deal. Let me qualify that. It means that I am most fortunate of fathers to have a child who never gave her mother and me one minute of trouble while she was growing up. Not one.

Unlike her parents, Shauna did well in school. She took the difficult courses in high school, the kind that I didn’t take. She went through Texas Christian University on a military scholarship with grades high enough to earn her a trip to Germany for exposure to the real world of Army nurse life during the summer after her junior year.

She received her Bachelor of Science in Nursing degree, earned her registered nurse credential, and spent four years on active duty as a commissioned officer. She left the Army last year and is now in a successful career as an RN with job opportunities, literally, wherever she wants them. She was raised in a home where her parents loved her and told her so regularly. I’m blessed to have such a great daughter. (I know I’m a bragging father. Cut me some slack; it’s my birthday.)

For three, turning 55 means that I’ve lived one more year. That might not sound like much, but considering how many of my high school classmates have already gone to the great beyond, I consider myself fortunate. It also means that I’ve lived to see one more NFL season.

In one of my favorite movies, On Golden Pond, Henry Fonda’s character said at his 80th birthday celebration, “I can’t believe it’s gotten here so quickly,” (paraphrased). I find myself saying the same about turning 55–how did it get here so fast. If anyone knows how to make the years go slower, please tell me.

For four, it means that my insomnia is now 31 years old. It’s older than my child. Do you know the difference between insomnia and a child? Insomnia never grows up and leaves home–it stays for the duration. And it showed itself again last week.

A month ago, I applied for another job within the company for which I currently work. Internal processes churn slowly in large companies. I waited for four weeks only to discover that my supplemental application was incomplete and, therefore, disqualified. After four weeks of wondering, mental torment, and stomach butterflies, I wasn’t even considered for the position. Thoughts of myself in the new job filled my head every day. Insomnia followed the disappointment of not getting the job.

I didn’t have trouble falling asleep as I would have many years ago. Instead, I awoke in the middle of the night with the inability of falling back to sleep. I hate when that happens. I did the only thing I could do at that hour: I got out of bed, went to the living room couch, and started reading. A couple of hours later, I was once again sleepy enough to go back to bed and return to sleep. I work the evening shift, so I have the benefit of sleeping without having to wake up to an alarm clock.

With all things considered, I’m blessed. Blessed beyond belief from my perspective, but maybe not from anyone else’s. Even with 31 years of insomnia that have made life miserable, I’m blessed with the things that matter most in life.

Insomnia Needs To Be Taken More Seriously

Mike Hooker — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 05:02:59 +0000

(Today’s article is a guest post written by Martin Reed, founder and manager of Insomnia Land.)

Much of the frustration in coping with insomnia comes from the condition not being taken seriously. It’s bad enough when people claim they suffer from insomnia after one sleepless night in a month. It’s even worse when people associate your insomnia with that kind of occasional sleeplessness.

Insomnia isn’t understood and it isn’t taken seriously enough. Doctors are too keen to prescribe medication without attempting to diagnose and fix the root problem of the insomnia (if one exists).

Our 24 hour switched on society rewards long work hours and minimal sleep. We’re actively encouraging sleep deprivation, and wondering why insomnia cases continue to rise.

Things need to change. We need more studies into the root causes of insomnia. We need to come up with better treatment options than prescription medication. Doctors need to be better educated. Society needs to be better educated.

Many insomniacs feel alone, misunderstood and ignored. This is unacceptable. We need to raise the awareness of insomnia together. We need a place where we come come together and share genuine insomnia advice and spend time with others that know what we’re going through.

Hopefully the insomnia help forums at Insomnia Land will help us achieve this goal. By bringing insomniacs together we become stronger. Our voice will grow and hopefully we’ll be able to force some changes – we’ll work together to ensure that insomnia is taken more seriously and that it is better understood. We’ll also have some fun along the way.

Let’s change things.

Insomnia and Coping with Life’s Tragic Events

Mike Hooker — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 20:08:06 +0000

It’s good that we don’t know what the future holds. On Monday of this week, a story on the local news grabbed me by the lapels and forced me to think about someone besides myself.

Last weekend an Arlington, Texas, family traveled to Dinosaur Valley State Park, about an hour south of Fort Worth. Their beautiful, blond-haired seven-year-old boy developed an infection caused by a rare parasite, Naegleria Fowleri, while he swam in stagnant water. It enters the body through the nose and attacks the brain. Death obviously comes fast.

What does this story have to do with insomnia? It has nothing to do with mine, but seeing the boy’s father on television talk about his son, whom he described as “heaven on earth,” made me think that he and his wife probably had some sleepless nights this week. And they probably will have more as they go through the grieving process.

With eyes swollen from tears over his son’s death and holding back more as he talked, he slowly and calmly spoke to the media. My heart ached for that young father. I wanted to put my arms around him and hug him tightly. I cannot begin to imagine what he was going through, how he felt at that moment. Then he added, “My son was perfect.”

His aplomb allowed him to speak of his son with succinct yet powerful words. How better could you describe your seven-year-old child? How he maintained such great composure is beyond me.

As a father myself, I’ve often wondered how parents cope in this situation. Every parent’s worst nightmare has to be the death of a child–it always has been for me anyway.

Insomnia.net: A Web Site for Insomniacs

Mike Hooker — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 17:36:22 +0000

Insomnia has always been considered the result of some other underlying problem. But since it knows no race, creed, culture, gender, or any other demographic, it has the opportunity to attack at will–and it does. Times are changing, though. As more clinical research takes place, scientists are learning that insomnia might not always have underlying problems: It, insomnia, is its own problem.

Since I launched ISS in January, I’ve learned a lot about insomnia and its prey. For the past 31 one years, I’ve thought that I’ve had a bad case of it, and I have. I’ve also come to realize that there are hundreds, even thousands who have it much worse than I do. I’ve never gone more than one night without at least a couple of hours of sleep; many people go for days without it. I honestly don’t know how they survive.

For the people who read this blog, you know I view insomnia from a personal perspective, and I write about the havoc it wreaks on people’s lives. On my About page, I state that I’m not qualified to write about insomnia from any other angle; however, I’ve recently come across a Web site that does view insomnia from angles at which I cannot.

The site is located at Insomnia.net. Their infographic is located in this post as you can plainly see. It’s not a complicated site. It’s easy to read and is packed full of valuable information about this wicked condition from which we suffer. If you’re not all ready aware of their site, click on the link above and pay them a visit. You’ll learn something new about insomnia that you didn’t know before.

I’d love to stay in contact with you, my reader friend. Feel free to leave a comment about insomnia and any of the many ways in which it encroaches upon your life.

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