A Pimple-Faced Dreamer

Since my last desperate post about my severe and chronic insomnia, I’ve had an outpouring of support from my blogging and Facebook communities. Some of you were perceptive enough to recognize that I was teetering on a frightful precipice because my extreme sleep deprivation was making me, well, want to die.

I am ecstatic to report that my new doctor worked arduously with me for a couple of weeks tweaking this and adjusting that until finally, I sleep like the rest of you. Yes, it has only been a week but it is the first week in a 1,000 I have not needed a sedative to sleep.

Now, there is the matter of the hormone induced facial blemishes which I find myself counting. Since The Husband has a bad habit of counting his golf shots out loud—and I’ve admonished him plenty about this very disturbing habit—I deserved it when he pledged to stop counting his golf shots out loud if I would please stop counting my pimples. My eyes met his reflection through my magnifying makeup mirror and I shrugged at him which is the universal sign for, “Sorry, Bub. You promised me ‘for better or for worse,’” then continued, “Five, six…”

I was diagnosed with ovarian failure in my 30’s and have a metabolic rate so quick that I require much higher dosages of medicines than even my husband who outweighs me by 80 pounds. Thanks to my new unconventional doctor, I am now on three prescribed hormones (one of them at 6 times my prior dosage) and five supplements plus I am required to avoid alcohol and dairy. All of that and acne, too? No matter. This sleep thing is everything I ever dreamed it could be.

“Seven, eight…”