When I arrived in Winnipeg to visit for the holidays, the familiar insomnia that I’ve suffered at the various residences I grew up at as a child and adolescent, and carried on into my adult life, but with quite a bit of relief, lately, took hold. The first few nights, I and those around me blamed it on jet-lag – though there is only a two hour time difference between where I live, on the Pacific coast, and where they live, in the sorrowful Midwest (thank-you Conor Oberst for the fabulous description), I’m very sensitive to time zone changes and the effect of a plane ride on the body, itself, no matter how long or how short. However, as the cumulative time that I had been here started to add up, so did my sleepless nights. It got to the point that by December 23rd, and the days following, I was waking up every half hour. Unfortunately, I am not using hyperbole here.
What on Earth? On methadone, as well as benzos and Imovane (a prescription sleep-aid, basically the same drug that is called “Lunesta” in the United States – no, we do not have Ambien here in Canada), I should not be having any trouble sleeping, even though I’ve always been an insomniac. On my sleeping medication, with the addition of the methadone, my problem back at home in Vancouver has been quite the opposite – an inability to drag myself out of bed. I’ve actually chosen the pain of suffering through the withdrawal one experiences when they miss a day’s dosage of methadone over peeling myself off the sheets a few times. And it certainly was not a case of pre-Christmas sugarplums dancing in my head – as it’s my dad’s first year of retirement and he’s flipping out about how “poor” he is, and voicing his flip-outs every chance he gets (I would really like to take him on a tour of the Downtown Eastside to show him what actual “poverty“ looks like…he may be earning less income than he is used to on a pension, but he still lives in a 4000 square foot house and has two BMWs in the garage), he made it abundantly clear that he would not be buying Christmas gifts for anyone this year. In a 180-degree development, I got an item that I’ve wanted for years from my stepmother, while dad got me one of those “whack and unwrap” Terry’s chocolate oranges 
. My stepmom has been on a pension for nearly twenty years, unable to work because of emotional disability after the death of her son, so I must say, my father’s groaning and grieving over the loss of a six-figure income is quite annoying and inappropriate.
Yet, it was not even the growing rage I’ve begun feeling towards the man that donated his sperm in my conception that has made me a worse insomniac over the past week than I’ve been in years – as said, I have enough medication to erase these pestulinces that may keep one up at night. Last night, after I discovered that this room that I spent my adolesence in was now rid even of its art – indeed, when a home-value assessor came a’ calling, my dad destroyed the first collages
that I made when I was a teenager. I can just picture him tearing them to shreds forcefully, fast as he can, the gingerbread man. Thank Goddess I got pictures last time I came by to visit. (Something I will not be doing again for a long, long time – visiting that is, I will continue to take lots of photos.)
I called my one friend who still dwells in this cold desert of a city, and asked if I could sleep over at his place – grade school child-style, but without sleeping bags on floors. He answered that of course I could, and picked me up shortly thereafter (the transit system in this city is a sham). It was only 11:30 pm, and hell, we’re young (sort of) so we decided to watch an episode or two of The Sopranos before jumping into the sack (get the dirty thoughts out of your head – Sam is a man, and about as manly of a man as they get 
). But, not even half an hour into the first episode, I was fast asleep.
The gentleman that he is, Sam nudged me awake and suggested that I go upstairs and get under the covers as not to have even sorer joints in the morning (the antivirals that I have to take for a month, now, since I was attacked here last week are doing a real number on my body). I protested quite a bit, I could make it through one episode – but no, I really couldn’t! – so I crawled under the high-thread count sheets and duvet (impressive bedding for a manly man! ).
And except for waking up once to use the toilet – I first opened the door to the linen closet and stared at the stacks of towels not quite understanding what was going on – indeed, I was under the influence of some really great sleep, and after using the washroom I did not even bother to go out for my usual 3 am cigarette, I went straight back to bed, and fell straight back to sleep. Another few hours later I awoke ready for the day, feeling well-rested for the first time since I arrived here. Of course, it is my last day here. (I’m not complaining)
So, what is it that causes this environment-specific insomnia? Are the memories of my teenage years that bad that I cannot sleep at all in this environment? It was a pretty troubled adolescence, but most are, am I wrong? All I know, is that I cannot sleep in this, my father’s house, despite all the material comforts in the world, to save my life. Yet I can sleep at my friend’s house like a newborn (yes, kind of a stupid expression because babies do not sleep through the night, but you know what I’m saying).
Has my dad’s lashing out at me during this visit scared me sleepless? I would love to hear you weigh in on this one, and tell your own stories of place-specific insomnia, as I’m quite fascinated by my ability to get a little shut-eye in a house five minutes away, but not in this house.
