At night, the tiny hamsters in my head come out to gnaw on the wires in my brain. Sometimes this will manifest itself as faint garbled mutterings, sometimes full-on shouting matches with imaginary enemies (usually David Bowie – a la Labyrinth). Occasionally I’ll attempt to pick a nice bouquet from the flowers on the wallpaper, or be found sleeping peacefully in the bath. None of these nighttime perambulations ever wakes me up though, so I didn’t really believe my mother when she’d tell me about my various exploits next morning. She has a tendency towards exaggeration, my momma.
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| Apparently it used to snow in Dublin a lot... |
The first I really knew of my problem was when I reached sleepover age. Fuelled by the finest sugary treats the corner shop had to offer, sleep was successfully avoided for most part. Eventually though, we all succumbed and I woke to this:
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| Now I know what a tv playing a scary movie feels like |
Apparently I’d sat up, zombie-like glazed eyes open and started talking angrily about “the letters”. What this meant I had no idea, but explanations were demanded. The thing is though – there is no explanation. Probably the worst feature of this affliction is not knowing when it will strike, or what form it’ll take. I could be furiously angry, laughing my head off or sometimes even crying, and it’ll usually have nothing to do with anything that’s happened to me during the day. Last year I managed to convince myself I had numerous terrible illnesses (Yellow Ebola Dengue fever anyone?) because I’d had a sore throat consistently for about a year. Until I realised that a sore throat probably isn’t that unusual for someone who literally cannot shut up.
Another problem is I rarely know if I’ve been talking - unless someone tells me, which can be rare as the talkings usually scare people, sometimes enough to leave. On a couple of occasions, (usually while travelling), I’ve woken to an empty room and a friend/scared witness telling me that I’d freaked people out so much they'd decided to scarper.
There were the Canadian guys in Austria who witnessed my “WOW! The Great Wall of China IS AWESOME!!!” dream and decided they would get the early train out of there after all.
There were the two Spanish girls who left in the middle of their 1st night sharing a dorm with me – one Russian girl remained who told me that, although I had been talking in tongues, “don’t worry, they probably just wanted to change rooms”. In the dead of night.
Most of the time though, there’s no one around to tell me what I’ve been getting up to, so I’m usually none the wiser about my night time exploits, except for the odd clue – like half a tube of toothpaste finding its way into my hair or scratches on my face (some mornings I bear an uncanny resemblance to that chick from The Exorcist).
Zombiness seems to run in my family too, to varying degrees. Both my sisters sleeptalk, a funny thing to witness since, when one starts, the other will pipe up too, as if replying to her incoherent blabberings. Sister 2 is usually arguing with her boyfriend, a past time she also enjoys while awake. She sleepwalks too, which is scary since her brain hamsters seem to always tell her to climb something. I woke one night to see her climbing out of our bedroom window. I had to throw myself at her in a spectacularly clumsy tackle to stop her in time, which woke everyone in the house, except Sister 2, who refused to believe us the next day. I can tell you, saving someone's life is only fun when that person knows about it, and can make you a lifetime supply of sandwiches (they pretty much have to). Still, I suppose it's good to have a few spare kidneys still out there...
Worst of us all though, is my dad. My dad is older than most dads, and therefore has a larger back catalogue of murky past deeds and experiences. It’s not at all odd for him to start a sentence with “Met this fella in an opium den in Hong Kong, he’s dead now”. (I’ll bet not many other kids had that kind of anti-drugs talk). I’ve often thought of doing a blog about my dad’s exploits, but not only would it takes me years to catalogue all his various tales (and a lifetime to try verify if any of them actually happened), I don't fancy attempting the blog equivalent of War and Peace just yet.
But to give you an idea, imagine if you will, the dad from the movie Big Fish had travelled the world, lived in many far-flung places, became a devout racist and had about a million different jobs before he met that girl from Tucker. Well, that’s pretty much my dad. ‘Cept with more war stories. (Though as far as I can tell, he wasn’t actually in any wars himself, he did live through a couple. Plus he’s seen every episode of M*A*S*H).
An infuriating thing about my dad (another unfortunate family trait) is that he will (and DOES) waffle your ears off about any old thing that pops into his head, but if you ever ask him anything specific, or appear interested in his stories, he’ll immediately clam up. The way to extract information from him I’ve learned is to act as if you’re arguing with him, or presenting an incorrect fact. Loves an argument my dad, loves correcting things even more. Should have been a teacher. (At some stage in his life he probably was).
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| This is the only thing I know about men |
Aaanyway, the point is, he’s done some stuff. Including watching every movie/tv show/advertisement ever made involving World War II. So it’s not really surprising he has night terrors. When I was growing up, most kids were afraid of Freddy Krueger (or Screddy Screwger as Lil Bro called him) or Worzel Gummage. I was scared of Nazis, thanks to my dad’s recurring night terrors about them coming to get us “And we don’t have enough goddamn furniture to barricade the doors and windows! We’re bloody done for!!!” I even started an Anne Frank-style diary, for posterity. Though my life in a 1980’s Dublin suburb was markedly less quaint and romantic and never really evolved into a moving narrative.
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| My diary at 17. Not much has changed. |
I suppose the moral of this blog is - don't judge a person by anything they do at night.
