When the Sleeping Place isn't a Place Of Sleeping

I can't sleep.

PTSD is like that, sometimes. Often I'm not even sure why my brain is in hyperdrive. Today, though, I know why I can't sleep (and haven't been sleeping well). It's frustrating, because knowing isn't helping.

Five days ago our second floor a/c unit malfunctioned. We were about two weeks away from a scheduled HVAC upgrade, so we weren't totally caught off guard. But two weeks feels like a lot longer in the HVAC universe, especially when the days are suddenly hitting high 90s and in a matter of hours the second floor is a stifling 89 degrees.

Let's change the description, shall we? Henceforth the "second floor" shall be known as "Bedroom Section."

Because all the bedrooms are on the second floor. And we do all like to sleep in those bedrooms. Other suitable phrase substitutes for Bedroom Section include "Sleeping Place," "Rooms for Resting," or possible "The Place I Send the Children When They Misbehave."

It's not as  miserable as you might think, though. When the Bedroom Section reached a toasty 82 degrees, I moved a twin and two futon mattresses to the floor of the Master Room of the Bedroom Section. The room I normally share with only one other human. Then I wrestled a room a/c unit down our precarious attic stairs into said room. Close the bedroom door, turn on the room a/c, and like magic cool air begins to circulate. Cool enough to comfortably sleep. Cool enough that the kids asked me to make it a little warmer tonight.

So, if the Bedroom Section has a cool sleeping place, which also happens to be my own bed, why can't I sleep?

PTSD.

For me, one of the most common and ready to act symptoms of my PTSD is an "elevated alert state/heightened situational awareness." No matter what I've tried over the years, I can't seem to bring those levels down in a practical every day way. My brain is hardwired to hear the world around me, process the information, and assume everything is a problem.

You can imagine the stress of moving into a different house full of different noises.

Also, I'm a terrible travel companion. I'm irritable and anxious. I also don't sleep in motels. We may stop there, and pay for a room - and then I stretch out onto the bed for a night of listening and watching and convincing my brain that EVERYTHING IS FINE ALREADY. [This is also why I can't be a primary driver of a road trip requiring an overnight stop. Exhaustion is killer.]

I've lived in my house for 17 years now. I know its creaks and moans. I love the way the wind shrieks around the back corner in end of Summer storms. I shake my fist at the 3am birds outside the window. I can hear the click of the furnace as it comes on in Winter. Like all houses, this grand dame has a sound palette all her own and I've grown accustomed to her tastes.

But her tastes changed the other day, and I'm on edge.

The room a/c unit that is effectively allowing my family a cool and comfortable sleeping place is loud. The fan is loud enough to mute the noise from the rest of the house. I cannot sleep this way - my brain is wondering what's going on past the interference, trying to stay more alert than usual. [I actually don't think that's possible, but my brain has a mind of it's own.] When I turn down the fan, the room a/c unit has a sound palette of its own, clicking and sighing, and my brain turns each foreign note into an alarm call to action.

So far, the experience has been much like sleeping in a hotel, only I get my own bed and pillow and I can pet my cat while not sleeping. So, an improved motel experience.

I'm worried. I'm not a well rested individual, as a general rule, and am prone to debilitating insomnia. I'm not currently well rested, thanks to weeks of ongoing knee pain and then a sick kid who needed 4am comfort. I'm already on the back foot, so to speak, of a rested body.

And once the new HVAC is installed, the sound palette will be new again. Sure, I'll grow to appreciate the new effectiveness and energy efficiency of a new HVAC system. I'll start sleeping through the cycles of each machine. We'll become friends. But friendship takes time. And until then, every night of DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! is a blow to me.

I'm more than my physical self, and my body suffers when I can't sleep. I'm more than my mental well being, and it suffers, too.

We dance again, my Crazies and I, trying to get through normal things. Because sometimes, PTSD is like this.