Sleep Is For the Weak

I’m writing this on nearly three hours' sleep and no real f*cks given.

Welcome to Jackass: Starving Artist Edition.

Sleep Is For the Weak is not just a killer song by the Dreadnoughts, but an unfortunately apt summary of my January so far.

The car troubles that plagued us in November and December did not magically disappear on New Year’s Eve. The bills keep coming. My motivation is flagging, and my current exhaustion has me taking the subzero temps personally for reasons I cannot explain.

I mean, when you picture a cold, snowy weather escape (beside a tropical island), you probably imagine the smell of fresh bread in the oven, a fireplace crackling, maybe a candle glowing somewhere nearby, a cozy throw blanket around you as you watch your windows like a Hallmark movie.

A season for eating and sleeping and maybe tying up a few loose ends when you're properly motivated, right?

In other words: A time meant for rest.
Unless you’re an insomniac.

Insomnia isn’t just ‘not sleeping’, it's lying in the dark, wide-awake, reviewing every unfinished thought, cringy moment, unpaid bill, half-crocked writing idea, and every unresolved issue you have.

You wake up tired and angry, trying not to be cranky with your loved ones who just want to help you (or at least get you to stop bitching about your sleep issues) while still hoping you’re able to tow your share of the load. (For the record, no, I cannot.)

Even the things you love doing, you don’t feel quite so motivated to work on at the moment. Maybe (probably) some of it can be chalked up to seasonal depression, cause ya’ll, it is cold out there. I’ve lived up here for over a decade.

I’m used to it, but I still hate it.
Especially this year.

Last year, I finally built a real and consistent self-care routine. Six days a week, I’d start my day with a four-mile run. It felt incredible, as it was my exercise, decompression, and therapy all in one.

I looked forward to that blessed hour each day when I was alone, and nobody needed anything from me. When I could sort my thoughts and be my own priority.

Until last fall.

During a run, I was injured in a serious incident. I’m still dealing with the aftereffects of that day. It’s not something I can fully talk about yet, but I can say one thing:

It took away my safe place.  

I tried adapting to it by waking up at 4 a.m. for a pre-dawn run, circling the same block in the dark over and over, telling myself to be resilient. No excuses.

Then winter showed up with its usual bullshit and shut that down, too.

Yes, I go to a gym.
Yes, I run on a track and a treadmill.
No, it is not nearly the same.

It hasn’t been the same since that day.

When something you never thought could happen to you actually does, it changes you. You become hypervigilant, even in your sleep.

I’ll give you another example- one that I can talk about.

About two years ago, I was driving home from a hair appointment in a loaner car that looked nothing like mine (as I write this, I’m realizing how committed my life is to the whole “car in the shop” theme).

I’m cruising along the highway on a beautiful sunny day when I notice a man tailgating me.

Annoying but nothing unusual, certainly nothing too alarming. Until I realized he wasn’t just riding my bumper.

He was following me.

And I’m talking cutting people off and making dangerous moves to stay directly behind me no matter where I went.

And, like many women, I still told myself I was probably being dramatic. I always do.

Then I tried that trick of making three right turns in a row and see if they follow.  

He followed me.

So, I called 911, weaving through traffic and trying to explain where I was and what was happening when he sped up, pulled ahead, leaned out his window, and glared at me like I’d done something to him personally.

That did it. I burned rubber making a hard U-turn.

He stayed right with me.

I was genuinely terrified by that point, but somehow kept focused on staying calm and getting through whatever this was.

Long story short, he was caught and arrested.

He was…not wearing anything below the waist.  

And apparently had some questionable items on his person.

As it turned out, he thought I was someone else. Take that however you want, but the end result is the same.

Because now, whenever someone follows me in traffic for more than two turns, I immediately tense up. My heart races, and I start to wonder if it’s happening again.

Because when something unthinkable happens to you once, it’s no longer unthinkable, is it?

On top of it all is the reality that our lives didn’t just get complicated out of nowhere.

We’ve only just recently gotten through a prolonged family crisis and emergency custody process that hasn’t fully resolved, but yet also sort of has. We didn't have the luxury of debate, and we changed our lives completely to do the right thing.

I'm talking schedules, finances, and our entire way of living. Even our future retirement plans were significantly compromised.

We took over parenting two kids who’d lived with too much trauma.

One of them had more on her mind than any child should, and it took a real toll on me in ways I'm still working through.

 I'm not stating this for sympathy or accolades; it's just... how it is.

So no, I can’t “just fall asleep".

Instead, I’m staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., mentally preparing for emergencies that will almost certainly never happen again.

I mean, they won’t… right?

Also published on Medium.

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Heather Papovich is a long-form essayist and cultural writer whose work examines real life through the lens of popular culture.

She is the founder of Unfinished Business, an independent digital publication blending personal narrative with cultural commentary, currently read in 33 verified countries.

Her writing focuses on reinvention, emotional truth, and the many ways film and long-running franchises help people navigate identity, connection, and meaning.