I have had chronic insomnia since I was a little boy. The severity has not increased nor decreased in my 62 years, so I’ve got used to it.
Nothing seems to help for long. I can hike 10 miles or dig ditches all day and still have insomnia. I can change diets, read, listen to ocean waves, to little effect. Some nights I can’t get to sleep, and other nights I wake up early. Five hours is a good night.
Some say stress can trigger insomnia, and I believe that, but mine began when I was too young to know stress. As a boy I would open my bedroom window and listen calmly to crickets until 3 a.m. Harmless bats buzzed by. Lightning bugs filled the yard like star reflections. I could daydream uninterrupted. I thought insomnia was a gift, like being able to play the piano.
Daydreaming was an active hobby of mine. Most nights I’d willingly go to bed early and pick an evening topic: What would I do with a million dollars? I’d buy my sister a big house for all her kids. Now let me design it with fireman’s poles and slides.
What will the future be like? We would have no more wars and everyone would be smart and healthy. Life on Earth would achieve harmony. Cars would fly. I’d then design cities in my head, with cool schools and amusement parks where giant rollercoasters provided crosstown transportation as an option, for kids mostly.
Why don’t dogs go to heaven? That tough question kept me busy for years, and gave me my first dose of stress. After my dog Nippers died mysteriously a few days after chewing a hole in an expensive inflatable swimming pool still in the box that had just arrived from Sears & Roebuck, I was grief stricken at age 7. My only hope was to see Nippers again in the Hereafter. In my grief I sought solace from my neighbor, Cora, Bimbo’s mom, who sat me on her plump lap, wiped away my tears, and told me the ugly truth.
I would not be seeing Nippers in heaven. No dogs allowed. No butterflies or bees. No birds, no fish. No dogs, cats, or elephants. Nothing that was saved on the ark, except us, the human beings, made it to heaven because we had a soul that made us special. And not all humans got there either, only the good kind. I used to wonder: Am I going to get there, and do I want to go?
The Nippers years lured me into metaphysical questioning at way too early an age. I began trying to imagine infinity. Even if I could envision the space portion, it would only be for a few moments in infinite time. How many religions are there and how many have a heaven? Who is the general manager?
What if I built a pallet raft and floated to Pittsburgh? How would I get home? Who would go with me? How many hot dogs would it take?
On those childhood nights where I slept early and awoke at 4 a.m., I often got dressed and tiptoed downstairs. I’d have the house to myself. I’d rummage through the kitchen for cereal and toast.
I liked being outside at the start of dawn. That first glimmer of light was my favorite. Often I’d take walks around the darkened neighborhood. The houses looked like background for a play that hadn’t started yet. Dawn’s first glimmer would bring the trees and leaves into slow relief. House lights would click on. Newspaper boys and milk-truck deliverymen would stitch their way through the small-town streets. In some families, the husbands, sometimes the wives, would come outside, sometimes in a bathrobe, and start the family car, then go back inside while the engine warmed up.
Some mornings instead of walking, I’d climb the giant elm tree at the intersection and straddle a limb while the neighborhood awoke. I was clandestine behind the leaves. I came to notice the Detricks beneath me were always first. Mr. Detrick had a big family and a long drive to work. The Millers on the right were second. Mr. Miller was a plant supervisor at Sinclair Oil. Mr. Parker, a local banker, to the right of the Millers, was next to light up his house. I couldn’t see much further with all the leaves in the way.
I didn’t have a watch, but I knew when it was time to get home and dress for school or begin watching cartoons, depending on the day of the week.
In college my insomnia helped me with my reading load. Plowing through “Moby Dick” and all the Russians was easy with a good night light and plenty of pillows.
While teaching high school, it was a juggle of a struggle. Insomnia could help me with my lesson plans, but harm my presentation if not addressed. I worked the hardest to control it during those years. Fortunately, good teaching is exhausting.
Retired I don’t really care much if I stay awake or lie awake. I still daydream, or I’ll even break the taboo and read articles on my phone and tablet.
The one problem my old pal insomnia is causing me now is that I’m falling asleep in my chair while Susan and I are share-watching a collected television series that we missed first time around, like “Dexter” or “Breaking Bad.” Then the next night she’s stuck watching a rerun.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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