A student once described to me the lengths he had to go to in order to get to work on time. He was in my night class, and he was always struggling to stay awake.
“I get up at 4 every morning,” he explained. Or, he added, he was supposed to get up at 4. But often he overslept the alarm. So he’d devised a system where he set four alarm clocks – one at the head, one at the foot, and one on each side of the bed, all facing toward him – to go off at the exact same time. That’s what it took to wake him up. This was one sleep-deprived man!
A quadrumvirate of alarm clocks standing sentry at my bed is my personal vision of hell. Never mind that the piercing clamor in the morning would blast me through the roof. What the mere presence of those clocks would do to my nights is even worse. Knowing that their luminous faces were trained on me like four sets of malevolent eyes, waiting for a flicker of my eyelids to broadcast the passing of time, would seal the deal: I’d never get to sleep at all.
Clock-watching and sleep don’t mix, I’ve discovered through the years. It’s not that otherwise I’m unaware that time is passing. It’s that coming fact to face with a clock at night triggers tension, a reflexive response I haven’t been able to shake despite the many ways I’ve succeeded in improving my sleep in recent years.
I’m not the only insomniac who feels this way. “When you have to work the next day, I think its hard not to watch the clock,” Liz said in an interview on the phone. “You try not to. But when the hours are rolling by, you start to count the hours you’ve got left. It gets to be 3 or 4 in the morning, and you think, ‘Christ, I’ve got to be up by 6!’ That is anxiety …”
I’ve learned to turn the clock in my study to the wall an hour or two before bedtime. And the alarm clock on my bedside table is a Brookstone, one of those back-lit types that don’t shine in the dark unless you press down on the top. It’s a small thing, but it’s done wonders for my sleep.