Cold Stop

In the radio biz, a cold stop means a track that ends abruptly rather than fading out. It’s synonymous with “cold turkey” for quitting a habit right now. It can also mean a sudden stop in motion, or stopping in one’s tracks.

Nothing positive ever keeps me awake. Even when anticipating something good, anxiety over what could (but probably won’t) go wrong will rear mightier and scarier during darkest night than is possible in the light of day. I don’t remember what I used in nights before I took the picture at the top of this post; it was snapped during 2016’s winter off Dallas Road and I’ve wrestled with nocturnal demons for years. But I recently found myself wide awake and freaking out around three in the morning; desperate to silence the internal screaming, I somehow managed to conjure the red lollipop in a blizzard and issue the mental command: STOP!

Imagery is power. My best defence against nausea is to picture brittle blue skies, silver-frosted streams, and glistening sun on ice-coated branches. Imagining the blistering cold of ice on my tongue and snow on my face is a sure fire means to quell the roiling threat of flu or food poisoning. So perhaps it’s not surprising that the picture of a snowy stop sign, accompanied by a firm declaration, startled my hysterical mind into silence. And in that instant, I was able to redirect my thoughts to something more pleasant.

Well, the only fiction that interests my night time mind is dreaming up the worst possible outcome in a real-life predicament – a scenario of which there are countless versions, might I add. It’s not at all compelled to consider writing the next scene or developing a new story idea. Ironically, there is no creative value in lying awake between midnight and six a.m.

So when I next find myself tormented by the insomniac game of “Worst Case Scenario”, I’m calling in the cold stop and going back to sleep.

Insomnia

My mind is stupid. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have one. It’s supposed to be this great work of intelligence, the thing that makes me superior to the monkeys; and I admit, there are times when it’s saved my bacon because it’s programmed to keep me alive, but paradoxically it deprives me of the rest my body needs by keeping me awake at night.

Many nights will pass without incident, but after a day of heavy activity and too much sugar and caffeine (yep, even green tea can be a detriment to the sleep cycle if I drink it in the evening), my eyes pop open at three in the morning and stay that way for at least an hour as my superior intellect spins its self-destructive web of nonsense.

What I said; what I didn’t say; what I should have said; how I should have said what I said; chipping ineffectively away at my Visa bill; work hassles; home headaches; people I want to disappear who frikking won’t; the weird noise the car is making; when are the Flyers going to start winning if the Flyers ever start winning … It’s this stupid, pointless, annoying black hole that does nothing but frustrate me because I can’t change anything at three-thirty in the morning and all I want to do is sleep because the alarm is going to go off in two hours and thirty six minutes.

So I toss and I turn. I try to hear the surf but the sea is quiet tonight. The house is so silent that I can hear my lungs expanding when I breathe. So I focus on that, hoping that a Zen miracle will occur and the rhythm will lull me back to dreamland. Then my nose stuffs up and I have to turn over to let my sinuses drain. Consequently, I lose the thread. Counting breaths is boring anyway. I point the remote at the stereo and get the Celtic harp tunes going again. The music helps a little. I keep playing back the day that went before. My wee sister’s surprise birthday party, attended by our parents, every sibling in town and their families (or portions thereof). It was so good to see everyone and be together in the same room for a couple of hours. Did I make it clear how delighted I was to sit with my younger older brother and talk hockey with his wryly hilarious son? Was I affectionate enough with my dear mum, who brought me a gluten-free baking book even though it wasn’t my birthday? Did I exchange more than greetings and good byes with Dad? I hardly spoke with the birthday girl herself ’cause she was late arriving and I had to leave after the prezzies were opened. I know what else I didn’t do: I didn’t stand on the coffee table and declare how much I love every one of them. Probably a good thing in retrospect, but a morose regret in the middle of the night.

Stupid mind.

I broke it – finally – by considering the story I want to work on today. It’s a handy tactic that only works after a while; I may try it at the first hint of trouble, but my mind quickly senses what I’m about and moves to block me. Eventually, I’m able to derail the night train and fall back asleep, waking somewhat more befuddled than usual … and with no memory of the brilliant plot twist that came to me just as I tipped off the curb.

I hate insomnia. A waste of time and energy, mental and otherwise. When I retire, I will foil it by being a night owl.