“I want to scoop my brain out and tell it to be quiet,” I told him as my hand mimicked a barbaric melon baller.
He rolled over and said, “You know you sound nuts.”
For three years, the Nursing program owned me from the moment I woke until I ended the day with a much deserved dose of ibuprophen and having my head swallowed by a big ass pillow. Sometimes those days would start at 5 am and end at 5 am the very next day. 24 blasted hours of call bells, barking patients, vying for the attentions of doctors who wouldn’t dare give a student a minute of their intelligence, clinical instructors hunting me down with enema kits because for some reason, I was the go to girl for bowel issues.
What that says about me, I have no idea.
Gentle hands perhaps.
Tack on working part time to pay for the torture.
I barely had a moment to pee.
Studying for exams was the last on the to-do list. Now hold on to your bed pans. I retained the pertinent details of class of which I learned from wasting my time in high school absorbing useless things such as figuring out math word problems. Have you ever gotten lost in the insignificant details?
John is Julie’s friend or maybe it’s his aunt and is she is wearing a wig or is that a bad dye job and the wind is blowing her skirt from the northwest and holy shit, you put numbers in there? What am I trying to solve? What. Am. I. Trying. To. Solve?
Despite the fact that I crammed the knowledge of the inner workings of the circulatory system in a single night, I made really good grades. My secret weapons were a cup of microwaved instant coffee and a shag carpet from the late 1970’s which was like the world’s first Swiffer sweeper of memories, Kool-Aid, and that time when my sister ate an entire bag of ketchup chips and puked. I didn’t dare fall asleep on it.
I’d squeak in an hour or two of sleep and then go to class; not before I told the curb that I ran over in the college parking lot to f*ck off.
Sleep deprivation was common during those three years. It triggered irritability, sluggishness, stress, and I seriously contemplated carrying out my thoughts of killing cats. I would recover fairly quickly though, with a few consecutive nights of solid sleep. Before I knew it, I’d be back to my normal self on the medical surgical floor with pockets full of rubber gloves and lubrication because lord knows my instructor had already to assigned me to twenty enemas that day.
Sleep plays a huge role in our moods and how we function and for me, like so many others who have bipolar disorder, sleep is as vital as breathing. I follow a pretty strict sleep schedule which means that I go to bed and rise at the same time (I give an hour window for each). If I’m thrown off schedule, I turn ugly.
These past few weeks have been challenging as far as sleep goes and needless to say, life has been uncomfortably interesting. I have unwillingly jumped on the proverbial roller coaster of rapid mood switches. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. It’s like I’m coming and going and feeling giddy and crushed with depression and the constant vibration of energy that innervates my being. All in a 24 hour period.
The most irritating of them all is the 100 radios turned on all at once blaring words that beg to be heard. My only respite is the huge (“very crazy people huge” according to my sister who is a psychiatric nurse) dose of anti-psychotic medication that I take at night. It takes me out at the knees like it always does yet I still wake up in the middle of the night*.
I wish it were as simple as treating a cold but unfortunately, it is not.
So while my eyes are open, I will dream of my hand being a giant melon baller and scooping my brains out.
I’ll laugh because the word “melon baller” is hilarious.
Then I’ll cry because I don’t have a melon baller.
Then I’ll get angry because Shawn is sleeping.
Then I’ll kick him in jealousy.
Then I’ll laugh.
And then cry.
And get angry and decide to write a post about sleep deprivation instead.
I am fairly certain that my increasing back pain is the culprit for interrupting my sleep. I had a xylocaine infusion on Saturday to help make the pain more manageable. It tipped into full on euphoria however Sunday, I was the complete opposite. Angry Kim. I’m really hoping that once the pain gets managed, I will be able to sleep like Shawn only look much cuter and with less drool.