The definition of insomnia is the inability to fall asleep or stay asleep as long as desired.

That’s it. So simple.

But that’s not the insomnia with which I’ve become familiar over the majority of my adult life. The insomnia I know could be more accurately defined as a raging f*cking bitch.

Here I type with trembling fingers in reach of an untouched mug of coffee. The morning after. The involuntary muscle twitches and a level of neurosis any addict knows well. The sun offensively forcing its way into my kitchen through misaligned cracks in the blinds.

Every line of text stopped short by my inability to remember its intended ending. Jumping with paranoia at the subtle sound of the refrigerator waking from rest mode. This must be how that Coney Island “dancer” feels each time his bundle reaches its end. My insomnia pats me on the toosh as I’m sent off into a day-long stretch of depression and anxiety.

Friends have joked that they’d love to have a sleep disorder; they’d get so much done with just a few more hours in the day. But for me, those added hours are anything but a breeding ground for productivity. They’re packed with crippling, vivid memories of my wild years.

I cringe remembering those early mornings before work – trapped in purgatory between college and adulthood – when the birds chirping outside represented proof that yet again, I’d f*cked up. So many sunrises served as now-or-never moments in which I’d have to decide if showing up at the office was still an option. I’d instinctively run through the excuses I’d exhausted in recent weeks, each becoming more and more outrageous as I reached to justify another potential absence. The list of deceased imaginary relatives was growing in the hundreds. The well of food poisonings, gas leaks and stalkers had been tapped out years ago.

These early morning hours now come with a strong association to an unmanageable life. Outrunning my last lie hand-in-hand with bad decisions. I was perpetually chasing the slightest relief from the pain that lived inside me, like an inoperable cancer. And even though that phase of my life is long behind me, just the reminder of those sleepless nights sends me right back in the thick of it.

I’ve been trying to outpace my sleeplessness for years, not allowing myself to be alone unless I’m unconscious. Peeking out of my window hoping to see light coming from any nearby apartment windows. The bachelor across the street is still watching TV. Ahhh. There’s still time. I’ve got company.

And then he rises from his black leather couch and crosses the room I shouldn’t know so well. With the touch of a power button, I’m on my own again.

My mind hooks onto a thought and it’s off. Doctors have labeled this “the onset of racing thoughts” but that description never rings true. My thoughts keep a steady pendulum beat – perhaps they’re lazy or just uninterested their own speed. No, my thoughts don’t race. But they persevere.

It’s time to review anything in my life that feels a bit “off.” Is she mad at me? Why has she been acting so weird? I must have said goodbye the wrong way. But wait, I ended my last text with multiple explanation points!!!!! That’s the ultimate display of kindness. How could she respond with an unappreciative “K”? Hold on a second – I should be mad at HER. And now I am.

Enter the fears – any and all. Fear that I’m not talented. That I’m ugly, stupid or a joke. The tape starts playing: Former bosses commenting on my lack of intelligence and creativity. Men who defined my role in life with a passive mention of another girl. Learning I was nothing more than a fat kid from various classmates in Junior High.

Miley Cyrus’ tongue.

I grapple for any feeling of hope that can pull me out if this. Comfort, comfort, find some comfort. My dog. Always there for me. Yes, that’s it. My puppy can save me.

How old is he now? Oh my god, could he be… 11? How long do dogs live? 12? SHIT. He’s going to die soon. And I’m not going to have spent enough time with him. Some way to treat a best friend. I suck.

And what about my family? We’ve suffered the blows of untimely deaths. I’m paralyzed by a haunting curiosity: “Who’s next?”

Suddenly I find myself mourning my parents while they’re still alive and well.

My late-night head is a bad neighborhood that no one visits on purpose. Landing here is the punishment of a wrong turn and a lost GPS signal.

But then it’s 5:30 a.m. They’ll all be up soon. They’ll come back to life, joining me again, unaware of the damaging impact that their well-working body clocks have on me. But I’ll forgive them instantly, just happy that they’re back; like a dog who instantly forgets he just spent the better part of the day locked in a crate after pooping on the rug.

The sun is lazily stretching over the houses across the street. The failing brakes of a distant garbage truck assure me that I got through the night; that I don’t have to be alone again.

Until tonight.