Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: sleep

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I am back with another weather report. It’s going to fascinate me until the threat of a frost has passed. At the rate we’re going, it won’t be until winter comes–and then it won’t be at all. it’s currently 44F, and this is the lowest it’s supposed to get in the next week or ten days. I’m wearing a hoodie, which I had thought I would not need again this season.

I have said several times that I love the cold. If it could be under forty year round, I would be down with that. The problem is when it switches from seventies to forties over the course of a single day. My body is so not happy. Even though I’m mostly inside where the temp is a calming 62 degrees.

I managed to get to bed around three-thirty, which is istll within the range of when I want to get to bed. I’m shooting for three, but I’ll take this as a huge win considering that I’ve gone from eight in the morning to three-thirty within a matter of days.

It’s got me thinking about other problems in my life and how I deal with them in a similar fashion.  What I mean is that I ignore them, try the obvious solutions, ignore them some  more, then try something radical that may or may not work.

Like with my sleep issues, the bad decision I made (staying up for 72 hours) led to the better decision I made (reverting to my previous habit of doing what I neded to do before doing the fun stuff). Today, I backslid a bit, but as long as I get my shit down by three-thirty/four, it’s fine. Or at least keeping me on track. As I said in yesterday’s post (or the one before, maybe), I would ideally like to make three in the morning my consistent go to bed time. I’m close to it and I’m doing a good job, but I’m worried that I’ll let myself slip little by little until I’m back to my old schedule.

I got a good seven hours last night, but it could have been more if  Ihadn’t fucked up my alarm. What I mean is that I didn’t reset my alarm from 11 a.m. (for my Zoom Taiji class yesterday)  to something later than that. That means that I got up at eleven, even though I was aiming for twelve.

I do wonder what is fucking up my memory even more so than it’s normally fucked. It’s been markedly worse in the last few weeks, and I’m sure it’s a vicious cycle with my lack of sleep. or rather, broken sleep. I have accepted I now have a shitty memory since my medical crisis, but it’s gotten even worse in the past few weeks.


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Groove is in my head

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I’m back with the weather report once again. Right now it’s 55F, which is nice for me. It’s supposed to get down to near-freezing tonight, which…look, we all know I love the cold. I think I have been pretty clear on that. However, I am having the roughest time with the wildly fluctuating temps. My body is, I mean. Here is my post from yesterday, and I’ll just keep going with my musings in this post.

At the same time, I’m just exhausted from the lack of sleep. I mean, I don’t sleep well in general, but I’ve been managing to have decent sleep until the last month or so. Maybe a few months? It’s been especially terrible in the last few weeks. Going to bed at eight or nine and still forcing myself up by two-thirty because I was determined to have a regular time to get up. I was hoping that it would force me to go to bed earlier. Did this work? No. Did I really think it would work? No.

I know myself. I know the way my brain (doesn’t) work. I know what I can make myself do and what I can’t. And yet, I still foolishly do things I know won’t work. It’s not even as if I’m fooling myself–it’s me trying to convince me that I can fool myself.

I think this is one of the things that frustrates me the most about my weird-ass brain. I know what I can and can’t do, but I still try to do the thintg that I know won’t work with the futile hope that it’ll end differently this time.

What I’ve learn is that I just have to do something big and completely different. NOT stay up for 72 hours straight, but moving from one computer to another by a certain time after actually doing the first thing I need to do. This is how I used to do it back in the day before I had my medical crisis.

Side note: I’m exhausted. I’m so tired. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. After having so much trouble sleeping and being so sleep-deprived, now that I’ve actually gotten a few nights of decent sleep, I’m more tired than ever. I’m not alarmed because that’s how it’s been in the past. My body can get used to not sleeping much (at least when I was younger), but once I start making up the deficit, my body wants more.

I don’t know if there is ever a point when I’ll be truly caught. I’m guessing that if I do this for, say, like six months, I’ll make up a good portion of that. Even if I don’t, I’ll still get more sleep and more consistent sleep than I have already so it’ll be a net plus. That’s the thing I have to remind myself about any progress I make–it’s progress. Even if it’s not as big or as much as I want, I’m still better than I used to be.


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Sleep, perchance to well, sleep

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My sleep is fucked. It’s big time fucked. In fact, I should be trying to sleep pnow, but I am not doing it, obviously.

I have always had a bad relationship with sleep. Fraught, I might even say.  It started when I was a little kid because I just could not sleep during the ‘regular’ hours when a kid was supposed too sleep.

I found out it was in part a thyroid issue, but getting that taken care of did not correct my sleep. Fast-forward decades later, and through Taiji, I managed to get six-and-a-half hours a night and only waking up twice during the night.

It wasn’t great, but it was the best I had ever had in my life.

Then I had my medical crisis when after I turned fifty. The one plus of that harrowing experience was that it righted my sleep schedule. I was so drugged up in the hoospital and exhausted from what I went through, I slept nearly all the time while I was in the hospital.

When I got home, I would go to bed at ten in the evening and get up at six. Then, my schedule slowly started reverting to my norm. Ideally, I would like to go to bed around three or four and get up eight hours later.

I keep blowing past that time, though.

I wish I had gotten it checked out when I was a kid. I know I could now, and I should, but it’s difficult to get me to the doctor. I do my once a year because I have to get my blood checked for my thyroid, but that’s about it.

A friend suggested that I do something drastic to get my sleep back on track. I have thought about going to see my two besties in Philly as a way of disrupting what I have going on. I have not flown since my medical crisis. Well, since before that, really, as it was preceded by the pandemic. The last time I flew was in 2019, and I’m not sure if I want to do it again.

I hate flying for several reasons. One, people like to talk to me regardless of if I want to talk to them or not. I have that kind of face, I guess, that just invites conversation. In addition, I’ve had more than one person ask me to switch seats, which I hate.. I specifically get a ticket as soon as I can because I need an aisle seat. I need to be able to sleep without being disturbed–well, I did in te past. Why? I get motion sickness when I travel. Back when I used to take Dramamine, I would sleep for the entire flight–even when I flew from LA to Taiwan.


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Two steps forward, two steps back

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I was going to write about something other than health/weapons today–

By the way. I find it highly amusing that I just wrote health and weapons back to back like they are equal things. Heh. Well, in my mind, they are, of course. Weapons equal health to me–or rather, the former leads to the latter.

A friend of mine asked how I was able to learn more than one form at a time. My very dissatisfying answer was that it’s a vibe thing.. Each wepaon feels different to me so that I do’nt mix up the forms. Not even after my medical crisis. My memory is shit in general, yes. I have to relearn movements from the forms I have most recently learned. Yes. But I don’t mix up forms, which I’m very grateful for.

I mentioned in previous posts that–oh, here’s yesterday’s post. Do with it what you will. I’ve mentioned in previouus posts that I have had trouble loving the saber and the cane, separately. With the saber, it’s because I expected to be the sword–and it wasn’t.Then, when I accepted it for what it was, I grew to be fond of it. Quite fond. But I never felt passionate about it until I started doing the Cane Form with the saber.

Coincidentally, I also didn’t care much for the cane when I first learned it. I think that’s partly because the pandemic interrupted my learning of it, which made it a very fractured experience. Buut, again, it was much different than the sword–which was the benchmark for weapons in general back in the day. I judged everything by the sword, and it was not a smart thing to do. Every weapon is different, and I needed to remind myself of that whenever I got frustrated with one of the weapons.

I love the sword. It is near and dear to my heart for many reasons. One, it opened me up to something that I never would have imagined would be so important to me. I can’t imagine my life without the weapons, and it all started with my teacher’s persistence in insisting that I just hold the sword.

I can still remember the scene as clear as day. I have recounted it several times because it was so important to me. It literally changed my life, and I would not be here without it. So I’m going to tell it again.

A few years after I started taking Taiji classes from my teacher, she mentioned weapons. She said it was time for me to learn the Sword Form. I protested. Vehemently. I was a pacifist at the time, and while I wanted to learn Taiji for self-defense, I could not imagine doing anything as violent* as weapons.

*I have also ranted at length about how women and AFAB people in this culture (and my heritage culture, Taiwanese, as well–even more so, actually) are brainwashed into thinking that the worst thing we could do is dare to be angry at someone. We were supposed to be selflessly (heh. I wrote selfishly at first. Freudian slip) giving to everyone with nary a murmur of protest.

In case you can’t tell, I’m still bitter and angry about this. I’m still unpacking the damage this has done to me, and this is one way I am healing that damage. I don’t talk about it much because most people misunderstand. Whenever I mentioned it on Twitter (back when I acutally used it and it wasn’t a trash heap of shit), I would get responses from men and women that were vastly different–but equally upsetting/annoying/irritating.


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More talking about my health in general

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In yesterday’s post, I was talking planning on talking about health in general, but I quickly derailed myself to talking about family dysfunction instead. It’s related to health, though, so  I don’t feel completely bad about it. Let’s face it–family dysfunction is baked into so many things, I could unpack it forever. I’m also still ignoring *waves at the world around me* everything because I have to figure out how to deal with it in a not rage-inducing way.

In yesterday’s post, my intent was to talk about eating more healthily and doing things to better my health in general. That’s not the way it went, but that was my intent. Instead, I went on a rant about how my mother made me feel like shit about my body from thet time of seven and sent me down a very dark and painful path because of her obsession with how the ideal girl/woman should look like.

It got so bad that after my last visit to Taiwan (gotta update my passport ASAP, just a side thought), I had to put my foot down and tell my mother that she could not mention my health ever  again. I had forbade her from talking about my weight at some point, which meant she just changed from talking about my weight to talking about my health–but she meant my weight.

How do I know? Well, first of all, I know her very well. Secondly, when I was in college and anorexic, my junior counselors called her in to talk to her about it. They did it out of good intentions, but it was not a good thing for them to do. Why? Because it embarrassed the hell out of her, and she gets nasty when she’s shown up. Not in the any typical way, but in underhanded, manipulative, guiltt-induucing ways.

I remember my mother sitting there with her face sour. I could tell she was upset–at me. Not for being anorexic and bulimic, but for making it look like she was a bad mother.

Did she have anything to say about me being anorexic and bulimic? No. Did she have any concern to show about my health? No. In fact, the only time she ever said anything about me when I was skinny was during my second dance with anorexia. She looked at me for several long seconds and then said, “Your waist is tinier than mine.” She said it with such hate and jealousy, I internally recoiled.

This is how I know that her concern abouut my health is bullshit. If she were really concerned about my health, she would be worried that my thighs didn’t touch, and I could not make it up a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. Do you want to know how distorted her thinking was on the subject? Before I went to college, I used to blast my boombox (yes, I’m that old) and dance on the living room floor for hours as my exercise. My mother once said, “Should you be doing that? I’m worried that the floor will collapse.”


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Depression sucks, part four

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Let’s keep talking about depression. Here is the previous post I wrote about it. I’ve had it all my life, and in the past, I had just accepted that it was part of my life. Which it was. Until I had my medical crisis and my depression went away. Not all of it, mind, but 90% of it–which is amazing. For the first year after my medical crisis, I was so grateful to be alive. I felt peace in a way that I haven’t in any other time of my life.

I would look out the window and just marvel at being alive. That’s not something I have ever done in my life before. Every cup of coffee tasted extra-strong, and every weapon form was extra-meaningful (once I could do the weapons again). I’m not being flip when I say that dying puts a different perspective on life.

However (and you knew that I was going to qualify it), that state of mind can’t last forever. It’s simply not possible to not revert to the mean over time. What I’m saying is that, even the miraculous becomes normal over time. Yes, it’s still amazing that I’m alive when I should have stayed dead. Yes, I still feel that in my bones, deeply. But it’s not on the forefront of my mind as it was for the first two years.

Now, for the first time since my medical crisis, I had the thought that maybe it would have been better if I had died for good. It was fleeting, and I was able to dismiss it, but it shook me that it’s happening at all.

Life is hard right now. And with depresion, it’s a slippery slope. For me, anyway. It starts out mild and then before you know it, I’m on the couch and can’t get off it. At least that’s how my old depression worked. Plus, my sleep gets even suckier than normal, and I’m jsut blah all over the place.

Now, it’s different. I’m not on the couch, but I’m not any more productive. My brain feels fracture, and my life is so gray (as I said in the last post).

In the past, depression was just a part of me. There was no rhyme or reason to it. This time, however, there are specific reasons for it. In late February, I had a major tragedy happen to me. It was expected, but still sudden. What made it weirder was that it happened the day (and the day after) the Elden Ring DLC trailer dropped. Which was…a thing. And cast a pall on something  I had been anticipating for literal years.

I dealt with the tragedy at the time surprisingly well. As I said, I was expecting it to happen–just not at that particular time and so quickly. I still don’t want to say anything publically about it, though I have written several unpublished posts about it.

I say surprisingly, but it’s not surprising at all. One, ah, positive of having PTSD is that I’m very calm and cool in a crisis. See, I’m alwayst imagining the worst-case scenario, so when I’m in one, it’s my time to shine. Nothing can be worse than my brain, you see, not even dying. Twice. It’s when the outside matches the inside of my brain, and there’s a certain quietness and solidness to it that calms the fires of my brain.


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The lying lies of depression, part three

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In the last post, I talked about family dysfunction, mental health, and talked about a few more points on my list of ways I can tell I’m feeling depressed. Here’s the thing. Depression is a lying liar who lies. But, it’s also sneaky in its lies. It doesn’t just hit you in the face with its presence (at least not with me). It slowly creeps up on me bit by bit until I realize that I’m depressed.

In a way, it would be so much easier if it did just announce itself and say, “Hey, I’m here, bitch. What are you going to do about it?” But, no. It slides in a toe and wiggles it around a bit. Then, once you’re accepeted that, it shows you a knee. It keeps going until it’s fully in the room, which is when you (I) know it’s going to be a problem.

I get so frustrated when it takes me time to realize I’m depressed. And even more frustrated when I don’t do anything about it. I am glad, howeve,r that I’m more able to talk about it now than twenty years ago. I’ve been messaging with K and it occured to me and–look. It went down like this. She asked me how I was doing. I immediately started to message back–fine.

Then I stopped. I was not fine. Why was I about to lie to her? She is my oldest and dearest friend.She’s been there for me through thick and thin. We have shared the good times and the bad. She’s been by my side through so much. Why was I pretending to be ok?

I took a deep breath and wrote an honest answer. And got an equally honest answer in return that she was struggling, too. And I felt much better in the instant. Not because she was suffering, but because I was frank with her and she with me.

We have always been open with each other. Twenty years ago, though, I just would not have talked to her when I was depressed. Not in a negative way, mind, but we didn’t talk that often, and I could have shined her on if we did talk during that period.


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Don’t sleep on this

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One thing I don’t talk about often any longer is my sleep issue. In part, it’s because I no longer have one. Well, actually, that’s a large part. It would be boring for me to write a thousand-plus words about how well I sleep every few months. But, a retrospective of how I got here? I’m all over that!

I had undiagnosed hyperthyroidism. In tandem, I never liked to go to bed until midnight or so, even when I was a kid. When I was six or seven, I would be put to bed at whatever time. Maybe eight or so? Way too early. I would stuff a towel or t-shirt in the crack under my door so I could read until midnight or so.

I never liked sleep and used to have night mares all the time. I was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism when I was thirteen or so, and had my thyroid destroyed when I was fourteen. That swung me from hyperthyroid to hypothyroid, but it didn’t make me sleep any longer per night. When I was in college, I slept maybe four hours a night. One time, I was so tired, I could not find my portable alarm clock anywhere in my door room. When I opened my mini-fridge to grab a Diet Pepsi, there was the alarm clock. I had no memory of putting it in there.

When I’d go home for vacation, I would sleep for fifteen hours during the first night home. And I’d be sick for the whole time I was home. My body was not happy with me. At all.

when I started Taiji roughly fifteen years ago, it helped me with sleep. I slowly started bulking up the hours. Before that, I tried so many remedies, I’ve lost count. Lavender in the bath (which is how I found out I was allergic to it), St. John’s Wort, Valerian Root (which made me suicidal), warm milk, sleeping pills (I could not wake up, not even after we halved the dosage and halved it again. Asian people, especially Asian women need drastically less of a dosage than white men do), meditation, exercise, a dreamcatcher, and probably other things I’ve forgotten. The only thing that helped was sex, but sleeping with someone hurt, so that was probably a wash.

Taiji was the only thing to help. By a year ago, I had worked myself up to 6 1/2 hours a night. I tried to work on when I got that sleep as well, but that was hard, too. I have always liked sleeping later in the night. I’m able to do so because my work schedule is flexible. At my peak, I would go to bed around six in the morning and get up at noon.


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Sleep is my newest best buddy

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Before the hospital, I had an epic battle with sleep. I’ve written reams about it, including a full-length novel including The Endless from Neil Gaiman’s incomparable Sandman. I’ve cursed Morpheus under my breath and overtly as well. In my twenties, I had nightmares all the time. I could remember four or five a night and there was a length of time when my friends were dying in my dreams in very creative ways. It became a running joke that you weren’t really a friend of mine if you hadn’t died in one of my dreams. Hell, I died in a dream of mine once as well.

Short history: Never had good sleep. Turned out I had undiagnosed hyperthyroidism, which didn’t help. That turned into hypothyroidism when I was fourteen (destroyed thyroid) and a lifetime of bad sleep.

When I was in college, I got four hours of sleep a night. I had a portable alarm clock that I kept on my desk. One day, I woke up and couldn’t find it. It wasn’t anywhere in my dorm room, so I gave up. I opened the mini-fridge to grab a Diet Pepsi and there it was–my portable clock, I mean.

After I started Taiji, my sleep got better by increments. I was able to sleep six hours a night, but let’s talk about what made up a night. I’ve been a night owl since I was a little kid. My mom would put me to bed around eight or so and I would promptly put a towel in the crack under the door. I would read until midnight or so before going to sleep.

After college, I became a total night owl. I mean, I was one in college, but I had to attend class so I couldn’t keep my preferred hours, which were 3 or 4 a.m. (going to bed) and getting up when I got up. In my forties, I had a steady rhythm of going to bed around six in the morning and getting up at noon. Recently, I wanted to have a more ‘normal’ bedtime so I started pushing back/forward my bedtime (going to bed earlier). I made it to midnight a few times before it started creeping up again. Forward? Back? Later in the night/earlier in the morning. Soon, it had crept back to four or five in the morning.


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The biggest change

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Before I went into the hospital, my sleep sucked. A brief summary: I was hyperthyoid when I was a kid and severely depressed. I rarely fell asleep before midnight and my sleep was sparse. I got maybe four hours a night in college, which was not nearly enough. Every time I went home for vacation or summer, I slept fifteen hours the first night. In college, I had a light purple portable alarm clock that I kept on my desk (which was right by my bed). One day, I woke up and couldn’t find my alarm clock. I looked all over the dorm room and couldn’t find it. I finally gave up and opened my mini-fridge so I could grab a Diet Pepsi. Hey, it’s caffeine. No reason I couldn’t drink it instead of coffee in the morning. Anyway, when I opened the door to the mini-fridge and there was my portable alarm clock.

Taiji helped me with my sleep–marginally. In increments. After several year, I was able to sleep six hours a night, waking up twice. I went from going to bed at between six and eight in the morning, waking up six hours later. I worked on pushing my sleep time back. Or is it forward? Earlier is what I mean. I managed to get it to one in the morning before I started slipping back. I am an inveterate night owl and I couldn’t help staying up a little bit longer each night. By the time I went into the hospital, I was going to bed around three or four in the morning.

All that came to a crashing halt when I went into the hospital. First of all, I was kept sedated and unconscious for a week. When I woke up, I had to get my vitals taken every four hours so my sleep was constantly interrupted. I slept a  lot, though, despite that because of the sedation meds still in my blood and the trauma my body went through. I was sleeping most of the time for the first few days I was awake.

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