Tightly Wound Insomniac
Like most people, when I'm under stress of any sort, I have trouble sleeping. Unlike most people, however, during these fits of insomnia, I develop super-sonic hearing powers. I become sensitive to every little noise in and around the house, and they become louder and louder, eventually convincing me that my home is surrounded by criminals waiting to break into my house and steal all my stuff and break my kids' toys.

So, in an effort to ward off these phantom ne'er-do-wells, I ... well, apparently, I get out of bed and come to the computer.

It turns out that tonight is a banner night for strange noises in and around the house. The Young Daughter has a cough, which I'm sure is annoying her intensely. The dogs are out by the pool. One of the dogs had a fit of barking earlier, but The Wife groggily contended that particular dog wouldn't be smart enough to bark if anything was amiss and was likely barking just to hear the sound of his own voice. The pool pump is making periodic strange hissing noises, for reasons that I don't completely understand. There is much about the pool that I don't completely understand, but if I was to think too much more about that, it would just add to my stress and probably would keep me awake another hour.

One time about 12 years ago, one of these fits of insomnia exploded into a full-blown panic attack. It was less than two months before we got married. I was completely convinced my wife's ex-boyfriend was outside our apartment, wanting to do harm to both of us. He wasn't, and he didn't, but my mind and body reacted 100 percent as if he was and he did. The reaction came complete with a full-volume, blood-curdling scream. It still ranks as the No. 1 most frightening experience in my life, and probably of The Wife's, too. It convinced me that I should never own a firearm; if I had access to one that evening, I might very well have used it for no good reason. It scared me because I felt like I had absolutely no control over my reactions, and to have something like that happen during what was essentially a bad dream made me wonder what other sorts of chemical imbalances I might have had.

It scared me to the point that I actually made an appointment with a psychiatrist. The doctor assured me that I was fine; she noted that the fact that I was checking to see if I had a problem was a good indication that I didn't. She pointed out that I was under incredible stress, being that I was about to get married and all. Her advice to me was to find some sort of release and to stop worrying quite so much.

That, of course, is easier said than done.

My yawn just now was interrupted by some unintelligible gibberish coming from the Young Daughter's room. She's apparently having trouble sleeping, too. However, being only 2, her options for dealing with her insomnia are limited. She's not awake enough for me to go in there and rock her to sleep; that would just wake her up further, which would only make her mad.

When I was in college, I'd deal with one of these episodes by calling my mother in the middle of the night. I'm sure it annoyed her, but I also know in a twisted way it made her happy to be needed. She was the one who moved out when my parents divorced, so she missed out on seeing most of the teenage angst first-hand. I think she saw my 3 a.m. calls as a way of making up for that. This, of course, is further evidence of the goofy nature of my childhood; when my mom's phone rang at 3 a.m., it was a signal to her that everything was all right.

When I became more adjusted to working late at night, most of my REM sleep was occurring during daylight hours, so I began to worry somewhat less about intruders and security breaches. Not so long ago, I'd just now be ending my work shift, rather than facing the prospect of an alarm clock blaring in six hours.

Quick inventory of the noises: low hum of the computer fan ... refrigerator ... ceiling fan ... holy shit! what's that? oh, the icemaker ... furnace ... cat ... kid with a cold. I think I can go back to bed now.