Mistress of Proper Sleep Hygiene, I am your devoted servant. I avoid caffeine, and exercise regularly. I go to bed at the same time every night, around 10pm. My bedroom, painted a serene blue, is cool and dark. I listen to a sleep app blending the soothing sounds of wind, creek, ocean, and rain. My bed is comfy, my bedding lightweight and soft against my skin. I don’t use electronic devices in the bedroom; I read a physical book by lamplight. I take calcium/magnesium and a melatonin tablet before bedtime reading. I confess one indulgence, a cup of wine, in a special mug, which I sip as I read. Yes, I know; wine is a notorious sleep disruptor. But when I substitute Sleepy Time tea I might as well be drinking espresso. None of this works with any regularity anyway. I’m preparing for a guest who’s often late to the party or a complete no-show. 
 
Since entering the blessed passage of menopause, quality sleep is hit or miss. Having surveyed the women in my family, it’s a good bet I achieve the most sleep of any of us. We’re energetic types who quiet our brains through distraction and productivity. Years of dedicated yoga practice instilled the importance of being in the present and not ruminating. When insomnia hits, I’m a master at counting backwards, centering on the breath, and bringing my focus away from troubling thoughts. I’m not always successful, especially at 3AM, an hour with which I’m all too familiar, but I have my tools and employ them.
 
Predictable sleep first abandoned me in seventh grade. My father had lost his job and spent what seemed like a year unemployed until being hired as an attorney at a law firm across the state. He lived at a YMCA during the workweek and came home on weekends. “The plan” was to sell our home and move to where he worked.  My parents probably thought they were insulating us kids from their worries, but I could feel them, and I had my own fears. I was about to be yanked away from my friends, from the woods I loved, from everything familiar. I suddenly couldn’t sleep. I lay awake at night for hours. I worried all day about not sleeping. My parents tried to soothe me at bedtime. They eventually called in an insomniac neighbor to share her story with me. She made things worse after revealing she’d had insomnia for years and took medication. I was terrified I’d be like her. I imagined myself in a white dressing gown, hollow-eyed, wandering the moors on moonless evenings.  As it turned out, my father found a job closer to home so we didn’t have to move. I began sleeping again. Normal life resumed, but a part of me changed. I was less confident, more introverted. I  held a private fear of insomnia and wondered if something was wrong with me. 
 
My next bout of sleeplessness happened 25 years later;  I succumbed to nervous exhaustion after months of intensely disturbing interactions with a mother-in-law who’d experienced a psychotic break and become delusional. I committed to my own wellness like a military campaign: I gave up caffeine and alcohol, and adopted a bland vegan diet; I practiced yoga religiously; and I began writing a novel to engage my mind creatively. I accepted I could not help my mother-in-law and ceded her care to others. I got better and slept normally again.
 
A perfect storm of divorce and menopause occurred five years ago. Feeling like Frankenstein’s monster, I awoke every two hours sweating and anxious as hormonal fluxes zapped me like lightning. I went to my primary care doctor who urged me to “gut it out.” Six months later, herbal remedies proving useless, I begged her for hormones. She prescribed the lowest dose and sleep returned almost immediately. Now on half of the lowest dose, I get 6-8 hours of interrupted sleep. I contemplate going off hormones altogether but my doctor urges me to go slow. I must agree with her. Why suffer needlessly? I want my sleep!
 
I love sleep not just for its rejuvenating properties, but because I’m a lucid dreamer of epic, technicolor fantasies. I fly, breathe underwater, battle dragons, and face down enemies. I can change the course of events, re-enter dreams after waking, or wake myself up if I need a quick exit from a scenario too overwhelming to alter. I work out real-life problems in my dreams, and reflect upon them for clues to what still needs addressing.  Where my sleeplessness can feel like a curse, my dreams are a gift. 
 
Will I ever get an uninterrupted night’s sleep again? I hope so, though my older friends imply it’s not likely. They confess sleep isn’t the same once we hit middle age. For now, I accept that I’m a delicate sleeper and must seduce sleep rather than command it. I’m grateful for a healthy body that thrives on less than the suggested amount. Still, I whisper every night: Sleep, my elusive lover, come stay with me and hold me tight; I need you so.