The Absence Of Sleep

Thanks to the German healthcare system, we’ve just had our routine check-up of bloods, urine, BMI etc – all the good stuff!

As expected, David’s results were not great. Don’t be fooled by those [+]s – those aren’t positive news! Even though he’s a healthy vegetarian (plenty of plants rather than chunks of cheese), his cholesterol, triglycerides and glucose are too high. It has all the hall-marks of metabolic syndrome, not to mention – ahem – that the ‘beer belly’ was expanding, despite being teetotal since Christmas.

Now this can be explained somewhat by sleep deprivation. Because, as all of you suffering with insomnia know, it is a stressful. This means, you release more of the stress hormone, cortisol, which has the effect of telling the liver to release more glucose. You know, for that crucial burst of energy you’re going need in a battle……

Except there’s no fight or flight, so all this unused glucose swirls around your blood and some will be converted to triglycerides, which in turn can elevate the cholesterol levels.

What I didn’t know though, was whether Citalopram could be contributing to it. Until I read this. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3687049/

Obviously, it is very unscientific of me to just rely on one piece of information without corroborating it, but that’s exactly what I did.

Now David was already unhappy with being on medication (see blog post ‘Time For A Break’) and this was the final straw. He weaned off it gradually and has now been completely free for 2 weeks. At the same time, we’ve been – drum roll – eating low carb.

Without altering portion sizes and just adding in more vegetables where before there were carbs, he’s lost over a kilo and also 2cm off his gut. There’s a follow-up glucose tolerance test coming up soon. Is 3 weeks enough time to make a difference? I’ll let you know….

So, I don’t think that was working. Well, to be fair to myself, I only did what I was instructed to do. I wrote 2 sides of A4 of the journal. NO MORE, NO LESS, just as Lezka requested. You have to start somewhere, and routine and repetition will be comforting. With time I’m supposed to find it easier. So, a pat on the back for me then. But I am struggling to release the inner voice. The first part read like a poorly written autobiography (which perhaps was an excuse to massage my own creative urges), with loads of in-jokes and oh-so-clever witticisms. All that bollocks about ‘genuine’ and ‘definite’ articles – schoolboy puns – but for whom? Am I really just trying to impress her? Then the crap in the third person. I suppose it says something, that I wrote that part like it was a tawdry detective novel. I guess I’m getting nowhere nearer to releasing those inner feelings.

Ok, I’ll try again.

I don’t really want to write about my youth, but I guess you have to. It’s the root of everything I suppose. When you look back, life seems to have been nothing more than a simple flowchart or maybe one of those adventure role-playing books. A series of decisions that only lead to the next big dilemma. All the emotions that mattered so much then are gone, if they ever really existed in the first place. I don’t really remember feeling that much. Just childish frustration if I didn’t get my own way. All surface, I suppose.

I remember being a big fan of Adam Ant. Something about the pirate (ugly old pirate, thanks cap’n) must have struck home. But I was taken in by the sound first. I heard Dog Eat Dog on the radio. I’d heard nothing like it before, the drums, the chanting. Real boy music. I collected all the singles, even made a scrapbook. 

Then came computers. Of course, it was just for gaming, but I guess that’s how it always begins. The Commodore 64 with it’s dud of a tape machine. Fiddling with the alignment head – trying to get those copies to load. Trying to program your own games. If…..then…..pokes, subroutines and SID. It was a good couple of years, back when it was fun. Not like now. Never get paid for something you enjoy doing, it becomes a job and then a slog. Just ask Finn.

Slayer put me back on track. I can still remember putting ‘Hell Awaits’ into the deck for the first time. I’ve never heard anything so intricately evil before. I had found music again. I got an instrument. I started to make human contact with the outside world (not sure if that was a good move). 

Blah, blah,blah….Yeah, this is filling space but how is it helping? filling space, filling space…………………………………..

But at least I am writing. Look at yourself, man. It’s relaxing, it’s calming. Breathe. Notice, where are those sounds of the struggle for air?

Sometimes I write as easy as I speak, and I speak as easy as I breathe, with very little aforethought. I really don’t want to appear clumsy or oafish. I much prefer the writing in the first entry. Not this piece of hack. It’s more me somehow. There is nothing wrong with a little escapism. But which is the real me? The jovial, easy going, easy to talk to, nodding dog of a man? Or the cold, calculating route planner that now holds the pen? Which is the real true self? The mask that you wear all day in order to survive humanity or the online troll that says what he really thinks. Some people honestly believe it’s the other way round. Being caught out, being shamed is a useful societal tool.

Sex is for Antpeople after all. The half-dressed lady in bondage gear, the cheeky allusions to a bit of S&M. Who knew what we were letting into our teenage bedrooms. It was potent stuff. It left its mark, just like the whip in my valise, my b-side baby.

Games were just a smoke screen. Or at least the puppies in the forest. I was dragged into that world. The realisation that you could be paid for doing something so alone. That and the development of maths. Fuck you, if you say math. I passed mathematics by self learning. I even self-taught alternative syllabi so that I could choose which exam to sit. Why are all maths teachers useless? It’s easy, just remember the rules and learn verbatim hundreds of examples. Flowchart the problem, start the algorithm and solve. Leave the exam early, mouthing the letter ‘A’ to anyone that looks. Common sense is overrated.

As for the big 4; they overstayed their welcome. Nobody’s favourite is Anthrax. But I have a soft spot for them. They should have just done shorter songs. Megadeth, got better, then worse, then better again. Metallica made 2 of the greatest albums ever, got famous and shit. Slayer were my favourites. I can’t listen to them now – their belligerence is too strong. Still Hank Moody likes ’em.

I must be close to fulfilling my task for today. Hopefully the reader is impressed. YES, I AM TALKING TO YOU!!! Two pages, no more no less. You can always reread the previous entries if that helps or at least scan it.

Not so many jokes this time, Ms. Ivkam. Just lots of cultural references to mull over. Maybe they have a deeper meaning, maybe they don’t. Cough, cough, cough 🙂

They hastened their step. The lights of the main crossroads getting slowly closer, unlike the following voice which was incessantly gaining ground.

Sorry, I can’t do this now, maybe next time.

When Gretchen returned home, she ate the simple supper that she’d planned earlier. It didn’t really matter that the predetermined macronutrient proportions were now not in synch with the paltry exercise she’d actually done. She just didn’t want to waste any ingredients. She never did. Her weekly meals were calculated according to nutrient variety, produce seasonality and metabolic requirements. It sounded like a lot of work but it was worth it because it was important. And besides, once you’d refined the algorithm, it basically ran itself.

As she methodically chewed her way through the meal, her eyes kept drifting to the door, beyond which lay the hall. The notebook was there. Resting on the slim table, underneath the mirror, next to her keys. She didn’t know what it was yet, so it followed that she didn’t know where to put it. It was in a holding pattern for the time being. Lezka Ivkam was just a dream, wasn’t she? So what was she doing in someone else’s notebook? It didn’t make sense. The only thing that Gretchen felt sure about was that the writer wasn’t Lezka Ivkam. And seeing as the author was a self-declared man (unless he/she/it was lying), he couldn’t be the tea-room girl either.

Gretchen placed her knife and fork down, closed her eyes and frowned. It was too much for her; a total sensory overload and now a migraine was threatening. Despite the tightening behind her right eye, there were a myriad of flow charts and mind mapping flashing through her brain. It was no good though. She couldn’t process anything with such random, unpredictable firings taking up bandwidth.

Eventually she decided that the next course of action would be to find the tea-room girl on the pretext of returning the notebook but really, the subterfuge was that she would find out who had written it. With that, Gretchen loaded the dishwasher, sat on the sofa and concentrated on her breathing exercises. 30 minutes later she went to bed.

She lay on her back with the duvet pulled taut and smooth across her body like plush restraints. Her physical form made only the slightest undulations under the fabric. She focused again on relaxing. Lips tightly closed so that she could only breathe in and out through the nose. She tended to hyperventilate if she breathed through her mouth—gasping, desperate inhalations that just reinforced the fact that she couldn’t breathe. She heard the occasional piercing buzz of a lone mosquito as it checked her out, assessing her suitability as prey. She weighed up the pros and cons of dispatching the insect but when you factor in the whole ‘getting out of bed, fetching a magazine to roll up, finding the mosquito, balancing on the bed or chest of drawers to reach and kill said-mosquito’ versus staying in bed, there was no competition. She pulled the duvet up around the side of her head so that her ears were covered and only her face exposed and concentrated again on breathing and listing words which begin with the letter ‘G’. Galleon, gigantic, gardener, gyroscope, ginger, gorilla, gastroscopy…

It was a building that I knew but didn’t. A public building; maybe an amalgam of previously visited school, library, university, town hall. It was 19^th century with broad sweeping staircases and shallow, marble treads. I ran up them easily, almost like flying and, catching hold of the newel post, swung myself around in a perfect arc before continuing the ascent. There was a freedom here. A physical unfettering that meant I could do anything. But it didn’t last. It never does. I pushed through the double glass doors on one of the landings and found myself in a long corridor, the floor a polished oak parquet. At the other end, I exited back into the opposite stairwell. Up or down? And now I felt the panic, because he was here somewhere. In this building, prowling around, hunting for me. And when he found me and got me, that was it. So where do I go? Up or down? It was quiet. Silent other than my own footsteps. Best to keep moving. Or was it? What if I ran straight into him? I went up then exited back onto the landing, back in the other direction. My feet slid over the wooden floor; I was skating. And then I noticed the corridor here extended further away. I slowed then crept forward, around a corner, straight on, then turned again. The corridor getting narrower; the ceiling lower. Until I reached a door at the end. I pushed it open then… What now? I was at the top of a huge, wide stairwell but the staircase in front of me was practically non-existent. It was derelict with only a few jutting treads poking out from the wall. I was going to have to take this very carefully. As I inched down, pressed tightly against the wall with fingers gripping onto pieces of torn wallpaper, I finally stood on a more solid, red velvet landing and looked down. There was a figure below me. Shadowed and in black, combat gear. It looked up, directly at me but I felt no fear. I watched as she gestured at me with her hand—‘Come on!’—then pointed ahead of her. She left. I wanted to follow but the staircase now went back up.

Day 8

Gretchen looked at her phone. 2:54.  She paused for half a minute then swung her feet out of bed and went to the pad on her desk. She added the words: ‘Who is combat woman? Where does she want me to go? Why?’

I had reached a low point. I left the A&E with help on how to get a Psychotherapist and encouragement to attend a Tagesklinik. Sadly, both of these had lengthy waiting lists. At the moment I was spending my days lifeless on the sofa, waiting for TheWife to come home so that we could crack open a bottle of wine, so that life was bearable for a few hours. Things needed to change. I started going to the gym. It was hard, I would spend most of my simple workout with my eyes closed (rowing, weights, running etc). My eyes were just too heavy to open. Plus, it helped to shut out all the information that I was incapable of processing. My workouts were very perfunctory, but at least I was leaving the house occasionally. Next, I really started to get back into  music in a big way, working with Moto, reestablishing contact with a former band mate and getting The Unreal Book podcast started and getting together (in an internet way) with my old band Kerosene – which led, in turn, to Def Robot. I now had something to do at home. Unfortunately, I was still spending the days very much alone, often the first time I spoke was when TheWife got back from work. I needed help, it was time to connect with a specialist. Little did I know, that I was about to meet someone who was to have a significant positive impact on my life. The quite remarkable Dr Frank…….

The first time I met him, he was locked up, for his own good. He looked at us through the bars with a face of pure contempt. He cried out. We were told that there were already people interested in working with him and we had to wait several hours to see if he was available for consultation. He was, and we arranged for him to make a house call. This home visit is now in its 10th month.

It takes a while to gain his trust. He is a good listener though and replies, sometimes in a Brummie  (Peaky Blinders) accent but mostly he speaks with a gruff voice, very reminiscent of the comedian Brian Gittins. He is quick with a put down – highly sarcastic. His choice in language could be better  – you wouldn’t invite him to meet your mother. He is as well read as I am, quoting from various art films from the 1980s. He eats constantly and cries whenever he is hungry – which is most of the time. He always wants to eat whatever I am eating.  He has a penchant for lentils, chickpeas and pumpernickel bread. If he gets frustrated with me he bites and sometimes even relieves himself on the floor – frustratingly close to his toilet. He leaves hair all around the flat. He is very similar to TheWife in many respects – you can decide which ones!

I couldn’t do without him. He seems to know when I am feeling particularly down. He will bunt against my arm and allow me to stroke and tickle him – you don’t get that on the NHS.

Sorry, Dr Frank is not available to take on any extra patients at the moment.

Stay with me. I am going to try something.

I am a man, but not the man. That, I can tell you, is definite but at least I am genuine. Like the song says, “I’ll never see my name in lights”, not even in my peripheral vision – such is life.

I was born during the swinging sixties on December 29th 1970 (no, I am correct). I have no idea whose was the first face I ever saw, certainly that of a complete stranger. In all likelihood I won’t recognise the last face I see either – it’s the way of the world.

I don’t really want to talk about my youth. Mostly because I have such a poor recollection of it. Or maybe it’s the start of some sort of god complex.  It’s not encouraged to know about a deity’s upbringing. There were the usual posters on the wall, addiction to the statistics of sport, alphabetised records and puerile diary entries, but at least I never drew a phallus on anything. 

I went to a private school. Fee paying. This sword of Damocles always hanging above me, ready to splice the Gordian knot that is my neck, if I should fail. I had to endure Latin and ancient Greek, whose legacy, no doubt,  disturbs me to this day. It also led me to believe I was clever. Not that clever though. Not Oxford clever. Not Edinburgh clever. But Manchester clever.

School life gave structure. It introduced me to bullying, privilege and casual racism and for that I am eternally grateful. Strangely, I didn’t want to leave. Deep down I knew I wasn’t ready for the outside world. I’d been protected. I am not on the photograph though. I didn’t want to be remembered, well not then anyway.

I didn’t really want to talk about my youth, but you got me started. There are vague memories of jabbing a stick in a wasp’s nest. Wasps being pulled from my mouth and ears. The burning of the nest. Falling in a swimming pool, reaching out for the sides, an eternity, life flashing before my eyes – though at nine years of age, it couldn’t have been that entertaining. Being slapped by a teacher, being dragged across the ground by my underwear, slipping on ice and permanently damaging by knee, crying after being badgered by my father for being lazy, being kicked in the face – glasses shattered, being referred to as ‘gawpy and gormless’ by a chemistry teacher, playing a recorder and feeling irritation as a large beetle tried to pass my lips via the mouthpiece, a teacher throwing a desk at a pupil, a teenager trying to set me alight in an amusement arcade and no, it’s not time for that.

Music was the way out. Or, more precisely, heavy metal. I was the most unlikely looking rocker of all time. A rake of denim. Band T-shirt, I wanna be different, but within the safety of dressing the same as thousands of others. Swapping tapes. Acker dacker, Maiden and Purple. Safe.

They weren’t known as The Big Four then, that came later but they (and a few honourable mentions) were the first teetering steps of me being me. I have no real connection to the boy before 16,  just a series of cine-film memories.

I would like to carry on, but the choking man is stopping me from concentrating and what would Lezka Ivkam have to say about that. I hope she got the jokes.

they left the bar, their breath instantly visible. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to them as they descended the steps to street level. Glad to be out of that deathtrap, they walked through the empty parking area. Flashbacks from the gig raced through his mind. Some solos were good, others, well, let’s hope nobody could hear them anyway over that crap P.A. He began to cough, throat slightly irritated. An upstairs room full of smokers and no windows and the only exit the thinnest, steepest spiral staircase that he’d ever had to lug gear up.

They had reached the main road. They stood at the crossing. Surrounding them was a series of disheveled looking buildings. This place was a no man’s land. Why had they deigned to play a gig here of all places? They hastened across the road, luckily it was only a five minute walk to the station and then a twenty minute journey home. Both supported by each other’s company. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be walking alone through this area, she not wanting him to be walking home alone with a guitar strapped to his back.

No cars, no people, just the occasional streetlight for company. They chatted about the performance. He looking for praise, she just glad that the evening had come to an end. Too many shitty late nights in smoke-filled venues. She’d been doing this for 28 years. She really didn’t want to come to this one but how do you break a ritual, he’d be upset.

As they talked they became aware of someone shouting behind them. They couldn’t understand the words, they were too far away and any that did filter through were not in their language. The shouting was getting a little clearer, it was definitely in German. Not the German they understood but proper Berlinerisch. It sounded agitated. Perhaps the cries of a drunken man or someone with some from of mental issues. It was getting louder. They turned to see what was going on. About twenty metres behind them a man was gesticulating at them. All they could make out was a an arm outstretched from a winter’s coat. The man continued towards them, aggressively. Their hearts sank. It was one of those moments that you spend life trying to avoid. This will be embarrassing. They turned in silent agreement, to carry on walking and pretend that they hadn’t seen or heard anything. She knew it was his fault. First of all for dragging her out to this part of town and then wandering around with a guitar on his back. That always attracts attention from the idiots.

2018. Now that was a tough year. I am not sure how bleak this blog will be, plus, you might find there are a lot of misstakes, as I won’t want to reread this, so I apologise in advance.

I had been in a downward spiral for 17 years or so. I had survived them using will power, my OCD and my relative youthfulness(!) but for some reason, going into this year I felt old. No, actually, I felt spent. All those years had taken their toll and I was barely functioning anymore. Yes, I was drinking to medicate my way through life. Yes, I was taking promethazine ever more regularly, with ever increasing dosages. Yes, I was doing both of these at the same time. I just wanted to escape from being awake, being anxious, feeling terrible. I would get home from work, share a bottle of wine with TheWife and we’d do our Beavis and Butthead routine on the couch, mocking some unfortunate T.V. show. I would live for a couple of hours. The rest of the time I merely existed.

I would go days without sleeping. Nights where I could get an hour or so of uninterrupted sleep were seen as successes. Going to school each day was tough. Having to teach was really hard. I would start to panic that I wasn’t clever enough anymore to do the maths in front of the classroom. I feared logarithms (hey, at least I could sympathise with how the students felt!). I would always be anxious that I was about to have a laryngeal spasm.  I was heavily depressed. Rarely would anything positive come from my mouth. Everything was dumb and gloom. Misanthropic to the max.

The school year ended. I’d made it. Surely the school holidays would bring a bit of relief. Sadly no, it got worse. I remember during the World Cup time going to see the Descendents – a band I’d spent my whole life hoping to see one day. It should have been a great night, but all I remember is trying to keep going. I’d not slept for a few days. I would lie awake during the night crying. Body and mind felt like it had had enough. I can’t really explain the feeling. Like an injured animal I just wanted to go off on my own somewhere hidden and curl up and then give up. This was the first time I felt like this but not the last….

So, I went to the doctors and got myself put back on SSRIs. This time it was Citalopram – the standard dosage 20mg. I also got hold of some Zolpidem, or Ambien as it’s known in America. This was my first real hardcore sleeping pill. It kind of works. After 20 minutes you are no longer here. I would then be unconscious for about 5 hours – on one occasion I managed to get my CPAP machine on in time but was out of it before I could turn out the light. The quality of sleep was still pretty poor though, according to the machine. Actually, it is not advised that you take this drug if you have sleep apnoea – whoops! The next day you feel pretty ropey and the chance of getting any subsequent sleep is pretty poor. This means I have developed a love/hate relationship with this drug. I’ve become quite addicted to its power of knocking me out, of taking me away from life for a while but it does increase my feelings of depression and is a highly addictive drug.

The summer came to an end and I returned to school. I struggled during the in-service week, managed 1 day of teaching having spent a few days without sleeping and then….I simply broke.

My dosage of Citalopram had been risen to 30mg (fairly high) and I’d had a night on Zolpidem. The chemicals in my brain were having a field day. I was no longer totally in control of my thoughts. I would fantasise about having general anaesthetics and just being put to sleep; about running and jumping off buildings – this wasn’t so much a question of wanting to die, just to be free, the idea of what would happen on the landing didn’t come into it. These thoughts were flowing, repeating, driving me crazy. I would close my eyes and see these images or flashing colours. I became fixated with a picture that was on a Black Flag flyer. In other words, I’d lost it.

I knew I was in trouble, so I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. I phoned my wife – who had gone to work at this point – and said, “Don’t worry. I am not going to do anything bad, but I am going to accident and emergency. I am having strange, dark feelings. I will call you when I am there”. The walk to the A&E was hard. I wanted to curl up and give up. I felt so bad for what I was putting her through but at the same time, it was my thoughts of her that kept me going. 

It’s seems so weird to try and sum up that morning in just one paragraph, it was so much more than that.

Day 6

18, 41, 131, 131, 20… 

She had to remember the numbers but also the order. The order was important. The order was everything. 

But then it all just started sliding away. And when she grabbed at one idea—determined to hold tight to it; not to forget it—another one scrambled off in the other direction. Soon, new thoughts entered her mind, pushing the old ones even faster out of the way. 

She lay there confused. Why was she even lying down? Because she was in bed, of course. Because it had been bedtime and now, it was morning. 

‘So that was just a dream?’ 

‘Yes, none of that was real.’ 

‘But it seemed so real. And the name. I had to remember the name too.’ 

‘The name was a dream too.’

‘Are you sure?’

The day passed in a fog. A literal haze because her eyes couldn’t bring themselves to even attempt to focus. Coffee helped but only shifted her up one gear and not to top gear, as she needed. Her head felt woolly and during the daily briefing, words just seemed to bounce off her brain. She recognised that they existed but had no idea what they meant or how they fitted together. She only wished that she could switch off her webcam, so that she could let her facial muscles slacken and eyes close, but that might’ve alerted them to her less-than-stellar performance. What she needed right now was to wing it until she could sleep again. 

She switched off the computer and left her small office at 5pm on the dot. You never know what the company could be doing in order to spy on its employees, so it was best to play by the book. She’d never used the luxury of working from home to skive or cut corners. That just wouldn’t be right.

This evening was perfunctory. A series of mundane tasks that she at least had some satisfaction in achieving. And then she went to bed.

‘Press them! Quickly! 18, 41, 131, 131, 20, 11…’

‘I knew it! I knew they were important.’

‘Remember the order. It’s got to be that order!’

‘I know. I’ll remember. I knew it wasn’t a dream. I kept thinking that it was, but at least now I know.’

‘Look at the screen! Look!’

‘I see it. I can read. Leska Ivkam. I know. It’s important, I know.’

‘Important? It’s everything.’

‘I thought I was going mad.’

‘Just remember it this time!’

Day 7

Fragments of memories—real and imagined—flitted through Gretchen’s mind. The only thing was, she couldn’t tell them apart anymore. Nothing was fixed. She couldn’t trust her own thoughts. It had only been a week since she’d stopped sleeping, but already she genuinely couldn’t distinguish what reality was. It amazed and frightened her, seeing just how readily her brain had capitulated and fractured. 

The only things that did stick with her were the numbers and the name. And every day, she decided that, of course, it was a dream and every night, she realised that, of course, it was real. Both convictions fought with each other but neither had the upper hand. It was looking like a dead heat.

So Gretchen simply tried to carry on. Hoping each night, that this would be the night when she would sink into blissful oblivion but each night, her mind skittered randomly round and round her skull.

She saved the copy-edited transcript to the v-drive and switched off the computer. Just what the article had been about, she couldn’t say but another day of work was completed and that was all that mattered now. This evening was usually devoted to a long session at the nearby gym. She was exhausted and had palpitations from too much caffeine, but she had to stick to the routine. 

‘If you don’t stick to routines, there’d be anarchy’ she thought. So she went. 

It was a perfunctory workout—no endorphins came close to being released—but she felt satisfied to have done anything this evening, seeing as all she wanted to do was nothing. In the changing room, she stared morosely at her reflection, wondering how 7 nights of insomnia weren’t wreaking more havoc on her face. Did she want her suffering to be physically imprinted on her features? Would that help?

As she stared in the mirror, she saw a young woman leave the room. She looked as if she was in a hurry. No, that wasn’t right. She looked panicked. Gretchen frowned. Panicked? And then, she realised that she knew her. She worked in one of the tea rooms in the village high street. It catered mainly for tourists, so she had to wear a frilly white apron. Gretchen couldn’t remember her name though. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever known it in the first place. 

And then she saw the notebook on one of the benches. Maybe in her panic, the girl had left it behind? Maybe Gretchen should do a good deed and return it to her? She picked it up. It was A5 with a plain anthracite soft cover. It felt nice and inviting, so she flicked through the pages. Not to be nosey; just to see… The lined pages were full. Neat handwriting in different inks and different colours. Some words underlined, some scratched through, some highlighted in neon yellow and then as she turned to the first page she saw it. Gretchen gasped but it was a small gesture. A mild intake of air with a gentle accompanying noise. At the same time, she thrust the book away, holding it at arm’s length. As if distance would make the situation easier to deal with. Seconds later, she drew it back and looked again at the page. She had almost convinced herself that this was hallucinatory and would have actually preferred that instead of the fact that the book contained the words ‘Lezka Ivkam’.

After several years of threatening to do it, TheWife and I have finally decided to write a book together. For me, it’s a kind of therapy (as you’ll see, if you should choose to read it) and has definitely been inspired by my recent stay at a Tagesklinik here in Berlin.

It’s hard to say exactly what genre of book it is. It’s a bit Sci-Fi, but not in the alien worlds kind of way. It’s a bit fantasy, but it ain’t no Lord Of The Rings and it’s bit autobiographical, but it’s not our memoirs!!

We plan to publish a chapter each week using Wattpad. We will take in turns writing the chapters. We have only slightly discussed where we see the story going but all bets are off on how we get there.

The first chapter has been written by The Wife. If you have a moment, have a read – it’s free…

https://www.wattpad.com/story/193925011-glitching

TheWife is also putting finishing touched to her first Choose Your Own Adventure book. It’s called Nightshift. And even I, quite begrudgingly, think it’s pretty good…..

So it appears that I am the busiest man in rock at the moment. Well, it keeps me busy (and out of trouble).

First of all, The Unreal Book, the musical podcast thing that I do with Rebecca Allen has its second chapter ready to download, stream or whatever. It’s a weird Sci-fi concept piece with music ranging from dark jazz to 90s slacker.

It’s available on Spotify, iTunes etc. Or you can listen to it on Soundcloud via the link on our webpage http://unrealbook.world

Here is a little teaser video to whet your appetite.

Secondly, Def Robot are getting for the release of our 2nd album “Destroyers Of Worlds”. You will be able to stream it on Spotify or Bandcamp https://defrobot.bandcamp.com/album/destroyers-of-worlds

Here are a couple of videos to check out, if you are so inclined!

Finally, it’s still going strong with Kerosene. We are preparing our next album “Circadian” ready for a September release. In the meantime, here is an oldie from our “Snatching Defeat” e.p. The very lovely ‘Open Letter’ – with video culled from the recording session from sometime in the 90s….

……..is probably Glenn Hughes

I returned to school and was slowly tapering off the SSRI (never, ever suddenly stop taking them, by the way). I would still have slight manic phases. I started compulsively buying LPs – this carried on until we started running out of room, so I sold them all ( I felt like a character from Psychoville). The ability to have sex slowly returned – I later found out that for some people it never does after taking this medication. After a 15 year pause, I started playing music in bands again.  I actually had the confidence to go into rooms with people I didn’t know and pick up a guitar. In addition, my first year back at school went pretty well. Not vintage Mr Hancox, but not bad.

All well and good, but I still couldn’t get a good night’s sleep……

In fact it was getting even worse. The nights were so long, jerking awake every few minutes, I was taking promethazine several times a week, Vick’s Medinite as soon as I had a hint of a cold and drinking on the other nights. I was also experimenting with……..milk and nutmeg. Yes, we reach for the hard stuff in our family! It does work as a kind of relaxant. Warning, don’t overdo the nutmeg – or it’s a permanent goodnight (no really!!).

I decided that I needed to go and do a sleep study one last time. Even though I had previously done 4 with little success. I had a sobering talk with the doctor, “You do know you are taking years and years off your life…” after which me and The Wife decided that we, independently, would give CPAP another go. 

For those of you that don’t know, CPAP is an item devised to help people with snoring/breathing problems by delivering at a higher pressure – hopefully, forcing open your airways so that you don’t snore.  This takes some getting used to!

First of all you have to decide which type of machine CPAP, Autoset, BiPAP or the central apnoea machines (not sure if they have a collective name). All of this is basically to with how much help you need tolerating the machines (except the central apnoea ones- they are special, more later!). 

Then you have to decide on which type of mask: full face, nose or nasal pillows.

We bought a reconfigured Autoset from the manufacturer and spent about €1000. We could, and have in the past, got one from our medical insurance but, unfortunately, I just can’t get on with the brand that they use. I use nasal pillows with it and need a chin strap to keep my mouth shut. If your mouth flops open, the air just goes up your nose and straight out your mouth!

I’ve had this device for a couple of years now and I think I am finally getting used to it. Yes, it does sound like The Wife is sleeping with Darth Vader – he’s quite sexy in an evil way, so it’s not a problem. In fact, I think The Wife finds it reassuring to hear me breathing and to know I’m still alive – sometimes I hold my breathe for fun, just to see if she still cares! Yes, you are connected to a machine, so moving around in the night is a bit of an effort. Yes, you have to dismantle it a bit when going to the bathroom in the night and yes, it has the most bizarrely powerful neon light that you have to cover with something if you want to get any sleep – top marks for the design team!

There is also a humidifier attachment that requires water, so that the air is not too dry. The machine needs regular cleaning. 

Main drawbacks?

1. I wake up with a very sore nose from the pressure of the nasal pillows.
2. I wake up with strap marks on my face that usually take a while to disappear
3. I still wake up a lot. Often coughing.
4. I swallow so much air during the night that I either wake up drowning in oxygen, or wake up in the middle of the longest belch in recorded history.
5. I wake up with a bloated belly.
6. More belching and farting
7. On a hot night it feels a bit claustrophobic
8. Going to bed has to become a planned routine

Pros?

1. I sleep slightly better (and I mean slightly).

2. The Wife cannot hear me snore anymore

So, I went to the sleep lab and told them I had my own machine. The doctors were not impressed. They like to tell you what to do – we’ll have none of this thinking for yourself and taking control of your own health. The results of the check were interesting. Not only was I having obstructive apnoea but also central apnoea, which is when your brain just doesn’t trigger the body to breathe. It’s mostly a symptom of…*cue drum roll*…not getting enough sleep. To treat this I was given a new machine. One of the special central apnoea machines (€3000 a pop but at least I wasn’t paying this time). Sadly, it was impossible to use. You have to breathe in time with the machine and if you get out of synch with it, you get no air. How unrelaxing is that!! Tried it for a while, no sleep at all. I reverted back to my old machine and that’s what I am using to this day…….