My sleep has been fucking with me, I swear. I’ve had trouble sleeping at night ever since I was 13. Somehow, I’ve managed to hold down jobs and live a responsible life through most of those years, but ever since the pandemic, it’s like my sleep has taken on a life of its own. Every year, there comes a phase where it just gets really bad.

I wouldn’t call it insomnia exactly—it doesn’t feel that severe—but for the past few days, my bedtime has been around 6 or 7 pm. The problem is, I keep waking up at 12 or 1 am. If I’m lucky, I get five hours of sleep. Even on the rare nights when I manage to fall asleep at 11, I’m wide awake by 4 am. It’s brutal, especially during workdays, because by 10 am—when the day really starts—I’m already running on fumes.

The funny thing is, weekends are the complete opposite. I end up falling asleep around 6 am and sleep like a baby till 6 pm. No interruptions, no waking up in between. It’s almost ironic. Tonight, what woke me up was a dream—I don’t even remember it clearly, just that something loud happened in it, and suddenly I was awake.

My therapist and I have been trying to figure my sleep out for years now. I’m seriously contemplating sleeping pills, even though they terrify me. But at this point, it feels like the only way to regain some control is to medically induce it.

When I think about it, my fascination with staying up all night started early. Back then, the days were chaotic, but the nights were peaceful. I felt bad not enjoying that quiet, so I unknowingly made a habit out of staying awake. I used to tell my mom I studied better at night—but honestly, I was just on my phone talking to people.

It’s funny how the habits you form as a teenager can shape your life without you realizing it. My body clock got its default settings back then, and now, years later, I’m still trying to rewrite them.