I have been an insomniac since-well, almost ever.
This is only a slight exaggeration as one of my earlier memories is where I am laying in bed, unable to sleep. My mother's solution for this was to put me to bed while it was still daylight outside. This made it worse, much, much worse.
Extra italics worse.
Instead of me getting more sleep, I just got good at hiding the fact that I am an insomniac; and I got used to functioning without sleep. It's kind of a superpower that is slowly killing you. In college I went to school fulltime, had a fulltime job, and had a parttime job.
Which really explains why I quit and went back to writing. Ah, writing. The truth is, I think writing might be a symptom of my insomnia. I can't exactly test my theory, because, I haven't found a way to sleep like a normal person.
Also, I have learned to never, ever, tell a doctor you can't sleep. Because they don't tell you to change your diet, or cut caffeine, they get out there little white pad and scribble some almost illegible magic words and presto chango, medicine that can probably kill you.
The first night I took Ambien, I thought I died; then I thought maybe that is how normal people sleep. Like they are dieing of old age every night on their down-alternative pillows, and I just don't get it.
The second night I took Ambien I woke up the shower, with all my clothes on.
There, as you can imagine, was no third time.
I am used to my insomnia. It's familiar. It's 1:30, and 2:45, it's one more chapter, and two more pages. It's bone deep, and it's now 6:20AM. I should maybe go to bed.