Sleep Stuff

Sunday, 5 April 2020

Sleep Stuff

Hey hey! Hope we’re all doing good J


I thought I’d venture away from my Quarantine Diaries today. I wanted to chat about something a bit different. Now's probably a good time to warn people who are sensitive to content involving nightmares, sleep paralysis, sleep disorders etc to skip this post. It's not graphic or anything; you should be alright, I just want to pre-warn!


I’ve always had extremely active and realistic dreams: kind of amazing in the moment, kind of disappointing when you wake up and you a) aren’t in Boston or b) haven’t got millions in your bank account like your dream suggested. Lol.


But, in that same vein, I’ve also always suffered with really bad nightmares since childhood. Call it what you will – an overactive imagination, too much television before bed, whatever – but, especially in periods of stress and worry, my dreams would darken with demonic clouds and horrifying circumstances which felt all too real. I would (and sometimes still do) wake up frozen, stiff with fear.


As a child, particularly between the age of 8 and 10, I would wake up crying and thrashing about like a possessed demon because of the terrors that would fill my dreams. My dad says the first time he recalls it ever happening, he sprinted into my bedroom with a lead pipe thinking I was being attacked by some intruder, only to find lil’ ol’ me with my open eyes dead in deep sleep and a primeval scream filling the room. It took him nearly ten minutes to wake me up.


Night terrors plagued the better part of my childhood. Weirdly, I could never recall what my dreams were about if anyone asked me. Yet, I could never shake off the icy fear that zipped through my body each and every time I woke up from one. I would be exhausted from it, like I hadn’t got any sleep at all.


It all seemed to stop in my teenage years, though. I thought I ‘grew out of it,’ in the same way you do with many childhood fears and phobias. You know the sort – fears of the dark, refusing to eat broccoli, ignoring demons plaguing your dreams, blah blah blah.


And then I was hit with a jarring level up in my second year of university. Completely random and out of the blue, sleep paralysis hit me like a ton of bricks and, quite literally, I guess, floored me. I had no idea what it was at the time. I just remember feeling awake but completely incapable of moving. Each time I would try to wake my body up, it just sank deeper and deeper into the mattress, like someone was pressing a weight down against my chest. All my senses were heightened but, at the same time, I felt completely incapable of doing anything. The first time it occurred, I don’t know what I did to get myself out of it. All I remember is waking up feeling the same way I used to after my night terrors as a child – icy cold with fear and exhausted, like I hadn’t slept at all.


It went on for a couple of months; not every night, but at least a few times a week. At first, I was completely baffled. I was nineteen and still getting nightmares? I would roll my eyes in exasperation and put it down to stress or whatever. But then it would happen again. And again. And again. One night it was so terrifying, and I was so short on breath, I genuinely thought I was going to die and woke up with my mouth wide open in a silent scream. I couldn’t get over the level of helplessness I felt in the midst of these dreams. You’re completely out of control in your own head, in your own space. Scary. I would wake up feeling like I’d been beaten up.


When I described it to my flatmate, she immediately knew what it was. Sat on her bed in her room (I MISS U MILLIE!), I explained to her that it wasn’t even a dream. It felt far too real to be just a bad dream. These episodes felt like a struggle for my life. Sounds ridiculous and overly dramatic in the daytime, I know. But try waking up in the middle of night unable to wriggle your fingers or toes, helplessly frozen and incapable of breathing whilst some thing (this is the Old Hag Theory that’s commonly associated with sleep paralysis) sits on your chest, weighing you down. Then you’ll understand.


But as quickly as these episodes started, they stopped. I encountered another one or two maximum for the remainder of my time at uni, but they were never as intense as those over a period of two or three months in my second year.


When random episodes attacked me again back in January/February this year, I immediately (albeit internally) freaked out. I didn’t have the time and the energy to trawl through all that shit again. So, I did what any person my age does: I consulted Dr Google.


First stop (as always): Wikipedia. Spot-on definition (like I said, as always). According to the website, sleep paralysis “is a transitional state between wakefulness and sleep characterized by muscle atonia (muscle weakness). It is often accompanied by terrifying hallucinations (such as an intruder in the room) to which one is unable to react due to paralysis and physical experiences (such as strong current running through the upper body).” I can’t describe it much better than that on a basic scientific level. I’ll let Wiki lead on that one.


After searching the internet for the meaning behind sleep paralysis, I came across some images. As I began to mindlessly scroll through them, I came across an image of a weird animal hovering over a terrified-looking person who looked as though they were struggling to wake up. I raised my eyebrow a bit; that picture encompassed a feeling I knew all too intimately.

I’ve learned to stay as calm as possible during these episodes. I have to remind myself that they aren’t real and that they will always pass. You just have to run with it.


The one back in February was the last episode I had. I put it down to a number of things going on at the time and I truly think it was a result of these because I haven’t had one since. Not to jinx things and speak too soon and all that, obviously. Sometimes these things spring up when we least expect them!


But I think reading up on these kinds of things helps. At least, it does for me. I can remind myself I’m not just a twat who imagines these things; they’re real and they’re scary and it’s ok to be a bit frightened of them. But reading about these episodes and listening to others’ experiences has given me a bit of a toolbox I can use to, well, not necessarily combat sleep paralysis. Is cope the right word? Idk, but you get my drift (hopefully!)


Anyways, thought I’d give you a break from the self-isolative content because it’s all a bit same-old, same-old (as if it could be any other way?) And by no means am I a qualified medical professional so don’t take any word of mine as gospel (in all walks of life, really. I am a self-proclaimed mess!) Just thought it would be wise to share my insight into this whole thing.

Hope you’re all sleeping well J If not, I’d suggest reading around sleep or doing a quick google search (keep in mind that some stuff might be triggering for you if you’re sensitive to this kind of content!). Now’s the time to, I guess; we have a whole bunch of it!

Love and all that xoxo

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The Toilet Roll Archives (3) - ft Anne Frank's Diary; yes, there's a point, I promise!

Monday, 30 March 2020

The Toilet Roll Archives (3) - ft Anne Frank's Diary; yes, there's a point, I promise!

Ft. Anne Frank's Diary - yes, there's a point, I promise.

It’s been 14 days of self-isolation and, I’m not going to lie, I’m thriving. I’ve washed my hair approximately twice (disgustan) and cleared out my wardrobe. I’m a lot less stressed out about Zoom conference calls, I’m a whole lot more Vitamin D-deficient and somehow have managed to rediscover my passion for WW2 documentaries and Anne Frank’s Diary - yes, the line between self-care and self-destruction is a fine one, but god I walk it hard. Bare skills @ 63. xoxo

When I first (and last) read the book, Anne was just a little older than I was. I was 11; it was the summer before I started secondary school. I picked up a battered copy off my grandmother’s shelf with the promise that I’d return it when I was finished. I never did. Ten years later, Anne’s diary has made its way down to London with me, shoved on my windowsill in between a second-hand copy of The Bell Jar and the chunky-yet-funky Moby Dick.

Until this weekend, I hadn’t read it since that summer. But I could never part with Anne’s book. I could never really let it go; sounds well stupid and eye-roll worthy but I have always had a connection to the young diarist. I say ‘book’ too, because that’s exactly what it is. It’s a child’s diary that has somehow stood the test of time and become a piece of classic literature – and that’s what makes it so meaty. A teenager carries the weight of literary culture on her shoulders. The book is hardly high brow literature and it’s as unsophisticated as they come, but that is probably what makes it so touching. It’s more of an artefact than a conscious work of art. It’s not Ulysses; it doesn’t try to be. It’s a girl’s story. And it’s beautiful.



There is something so valuable in a young person’s perspective. They know everything yet understand little and their view on the world is as naïve as they come. Their insight is incredible. It is so precious because it lasts for a very short amount of time because, as they grow, their minds expand, as do their horizons, their opportunities and, thus, their worlds. More doors open and experience tarnishes that naïve insight of simultaneously knowing both everything and nothing.

And then you get Anne: a typical teenager who knows everything and nothing at the same time, who’s mind is opening, and world is expanding – at the same time as being confined to the walls of an Amsterdam attic under a Nazi regime.

I think of this hook and immediately picture roses and vines mounting brick walls. A trapped young girl who’s thoughts bloom and blossom against the rock-hard density of confinement. Obviously, it’s a lot deeper and far more problematic than that. It’s a deeply romanticised metaphor and I’m obviously not trying to offend anyone by suggesting that it is as simple as this. But this was always the image that came to mind when I thought of Anne and her diary.

I remember devouring Anne’s entries the weekend I stole* it from my Nana. I loved her. I was fascinated and moved by her experiences. She seemed a lot more grown up than 11-year-old me and she used big words and long sentences I would have to read two or three times to understand. She sounded so mature and wise. I used to wish I could write like that.

I always knew Anne died at Belsen, but knowing that as a child is not the same as knowing that as an adult who has stood on the grounds of half-destroyed chambers and who has read the heart-breaking eye-witness accounts of Anne’s last days, covered in lice, feverish with typhus.

Reading Anne’s diary as an adult is a very different experience. Now she seems incredibly young. And the concept of a child hiding from Nazis in an attic with 8 other people is a lot more harrowing at 21 than it is when you’re 11. Yet, the ‘vines climbing walls’ image still springs to mind. Anne’s words climb out of the pages and hit you over the head with that precious, short-lived teenage perspective that you almost forget she is living in the midst of crisis.

That image is probably why I am so attached to Anne’s diary. It’s all about the idea of perspective.

I won’t go into Anne’s story. You most likely know it. If you don’t, look it up. The Diary of Anne Frank is one of the most widely read nonfiction books in the world. Translated into around 70 languages, it's been adapted many times for stage, film, and television and used in schools across the world to help children understand the meaning, and horror, of the Holocaust.



It seemed only fitting to pick it up this weekend. I had just finished a stale Churchill documentary which was not as promising as it had sounded (obvs it’s Churchill :/) and, with nothing better to do, I gave Anne’s diary a second go. This time, I absorbed it in less than 24 hours.


Flashforward to today: Monday. Day 14 of self-isolation. Early this morning, I went out for a run during my allocated hour of exercise a day. It was freezing but beautifully sunny. I finished up and was stood outside my front door, looking out from the balcony, and I remembered one of Anne’s sentences that stuck with me over the course of the weekend.

“As long as this exists, this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?”

I began to think about the many complaints I have heard since the government shut down businesses and public places, forcing us to stay at home as much as possible. I thought about my initial remarks regarding the virus way earlier this month, unsure as to whether I was underreacting or whether everyone else was overreacting. I thought about the vulnerable people in my life at the moment who are victim to COVID-19 on either (or both) a physical and economic level.

Those thoughts took me back to a young girl who, 80 years ago, was forced into hiding for two years, and who still had the hope and wisdom to see beauty in her dire circumstances.

The memory of the time her story stole my heart ten years ago encouraged me to dust off her book and read some of her most encouraging quotes to find a bit of light in a very dark world:

“I don’t think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.”

 “Where there’s hope, there’s life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again.”

The question I’m asking today is this: are we choosing to spend this time complaining and acting in fear or, like Anne, are we determined to find gratitude and purpose in this trial?

Anne’s story is more relevant than ever. Her timeless words are the vines that climbed the walls of the Nazi regime that took her life. They grew out of the annex they were discovered in and outlasted the evil that took her life by spreading their blossoming thoughts across the world, into 70 different languages, into thousands upon thousands of editions. The everlasting petals of her words were the ultimate triumph over the brick walls that confined her.

Today, all of us are also surrounded by a brick wall that’s deadly impact is weighing us down. And complacency and apathy aren’t going to help us. While remembering never to put others at risk, we also cannot be paralysed by fear. Striking the proper balance is a fine line but, like the line between self-care and self-destruction, we have to learn to walk it well J.

I don’t really know what I’m trying to say fully, I guess. Anne’s spirit captures it perfectly, though, in this one small paragraph:

“Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don’t know how great you can be! How much you can live! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!”

We are all enlisted in the effort to minimise the danger to those around us by looking to ourselves for accountability and responsibility. Our full potential as humans is to be scrutinised in the most trialling of times – our potential being, I think, the most human of all things: caring for your fellow human.

As Anne writes, "How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world. Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy."

I think about my friends on the front line, waging a health war being the incredible medics and supermarket superheroes they are. I think about my morning runs and appreciating the cold fresh (and cleaner - London is thriving rn!) air that hits me. I think about keeping my vulnerable family and friends safe. And if fulfilling my potential in 2020 means helping my fellow humans out by sitting at home and watching Friends, I’ll do it.

Random one, I know. Makes no real sense but, hey, can you blame me? 2 weeks of self-isolation? I’m going slightly deranged J.

Anyways this blog felt cute but probs will delete later. All the love and stuff; keep safe and stay inside! xoxo

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The Toilet Roll Archives (2) - Less toilet roll, more self-isolation and stuff.

Tuesday, 24 March 2020

The Toilet Roll Archives (2) - Less toilet roll, more self-isolation and stuff.

Less Toilet Roll, More Self-Isolation and Stuff.

“Wow, it’s been a week.”

“Kezza, it’s literally Tuesday.”

Week 2 of social distancing is well underway and London Under Lockdown has officially begun. If that snapshot of an earlier conversation I shared with my friend (virtually, of course - hi social isolation, I'm Kerry!) doesn't sum up how it's going, I don't know what will.

I mentioned last week that, right now, it all feels a bit like we are living in the creative writing homework of a nine-year-old. Everything seemed a bit odd. Now, however, government has upped the anti and tightened up a whole lot of loose ends. Things are a lot more serious (about time, arguably?). I think we've progressed from English homework to Hollywood blockbuster in a matter of days. I'm telling you now, in about 5 years’ time, a film will be made about COVID-19; it will be called 'Viral,' it will star Keanu Reeves and it will be...eugh...alright.

Screenplay pushed aside, I want to talk about The Bigger Picture today. Yep, capitals for that one.

I often think about the global phenomena I've lived through in my short time on this planet. I also like reflecting on the events of the past that I didn't live through or can barely recall which, nonetheless, truly shaped the world I see today. Dunno why. Have done since I was a child. It's fascinating to think that I am a miniscule, essentially meaningless, piece of a far larger and more densely complex puzzle. I'm just a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. Terrifying. Yet, somehow (and strangely) fascinating. I mean nothing, really. Love that self-confidence 4 me, shine on hun xoxo

Still here? I've got a point, I promise.

I finished work a little after 5 pm today, shifted myself from my desk to my floor (because that's where all the good ideas grow!) and began to think about COVID-19, 2020 and me. How does the time and space I - a tiny speck of dust, as we established - find myself work under the larger framework of a pandemic?

Boom: found my angle. Intersectionality. The crossover points. What happens at the intersection of economics, info and tech-aided interconnectivity? What does it mean to be human in an age of global hyper-connectedness? What does it mean to be a 'modern man' when 'modern' hardly matters because as boss as the 'modern man' might think he is, he’ll still collapse under the weight of one of the oldest and feared of global phenomena: worldwide sickness?

Hyper-connectedness doesn't sound so good when you realise you could put your vulnerable friends and neighbours at risk, does it? The “we’re all in this together” narrative certainly warms my heart but, as I talked about last week, it seems that “we’re all in this together” now equates to self-isolation. The kindest thing we can do is stay away from each other. And, as innately social beings, it seems to be a bit tricky for some – see #ByeChris on Twitter/BBC Radio Solent for reference 😊 .

We’ve built this massively globalised and interconnected society – which is unbelievable; I’m not going to knock it. The internet and social media and such (when used responsibly) is fucking great. We’ve made the impossible possible and actualised an instantaneous reality which serves us well.
So, let’s take this mass pandemic and global health crisis and put it in 2020, in the world of digital hyper-connectivity. How did we get into this mess? How did we let age-old fears and phenomena mix into our world today? Most importantly, how do we get out of this (*cough* stay at home *cough*)? What will the future, post-COVID-19, look like?

Coronavirus is showing a powerful transmission effect like no disease of its kind — with evidence that human carriers are most contagious before they realise that they pose a risk. Given the stats, it’s likely that the amount of cases we will face will overrun our hospital structures. I mean, the NHS is already an underfunded, bed-blocked mess of a system which is propped up on the shoulders of superhumans. Without them, it barely stands a chance.

We have this powerful virus spreading across a powerful social system. We’ve evolved to the point where our brain capacity is overloaded with stories (snapchat and otherwise) and ideas which have complicated humans further and makes us believe we are indestructible. Well, if Corona's taught us one thing, it's that we aren't. We aren't that special. We're all just specks of dust, really.

This is not to say that primal instincts don’t drive our behaviour still. You only need to wander down the aisle that – well, used to be – filled with toilet roll. Talk about fight or flight mode! I’m pretty confident in saying, despite the DMs, social stylings today haven’t fully conquered our ‘everyone for themselves’ inspired behaviours.

The point is, we live for stories. The economics of our digital, information-saturated existence is driven by them. We have innate desire to connect with each other, to communicate, to tell and listen to each other’s tales. At least, that’s what Yuval Harari’s Sapiens explains. Harari’s book is incredible by the way; if you are a reader or if you aren’t a reader but still are a human, give the book about humans a go. Can’t think of a more relevant circumstance to read the book under than lockdown, too!

Basically, Harari chats on about how humans ended up dominating the planet as a species because of their capabilities when it came to telling and believing stories. We are ‘a post-truth species,’ Harari states. I’m talking everything from the belief in the resurrection of Jesus Christ to Trump’s ‘fake news.’ The underpinning of the telling and believing of these stories is the way they function to socially organise the masses. Stories, no doubt, are the very foundations on which our society is built on.

That being said, seeing things through this lens, especially in 2020, helps us grasp how we are innately social beings.

The key now, then, if we are to protect civilization, is to figure out how to feed that need in a way that doesn’t make us all stir-crazy. Until very recently, that was pretty much impossible because communication was a largely in-person activity. But modern technology, most importantly the rise of the internet, has bolstered us forward. This is not the 15th century, where the Black Death pandemic killed between 75 and 200 million people across Europe. It's not the Influenza outbreak of 1918, either, killing up to 50 million and infecting 500 million. What makes things different a century later is that we've figured out how to deny these grim little bacteria the human pathways on which they thrive (in a nutshell vaccinate your kids and skype your dad, k?)

We have no choice but to go against our evolved social instincts and avoid each other for a while. But the good news is that much of society has the tools to achieve this without entirely giving up on human connectivity. It won’t be easy. Like, dependence on social media for human connection can’t be all that healthy. Nonetheless, it’s more of a tool than we had when the Spanish Flu wiped out masses of people back in the day. The digital revolution means that we can still connect; it’s just that our stories can now be found on Instagram rather than told face-to-face.

Perhaps the key to the intersectionality that fascinates me so much is evolution; it fits both sides of the coin. COVID-19 has evolved into an extremely cunning adversary. It turns people into ignorant and contagious beings well before they’ve the developed the symptoms that would otherwise set off warning signs to others.

But we too benefit from a different force of evolution: that of changes in technology and in the means of socialising. They demonstrate that, despite the mammoth amount of idiocy currently on display (STAY AT HOME, CHRIS, ohmyGOD!) we do have the capacity to defeat the COVID-19. We can outlast it.

The future post-Corona? Fuck knows. However, the one thing we can be certain of it our eventual return to real, actual social connections. That's something worth waiting for, surely.

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