What Keeps Me Up at Night?

Originally published April 2018

“What keeps you up at night?”

Every month, my blogging community posits a singular question for writers to use as a prompt — in this case, the bogeyman that wrestles us from our slumber. I read the prompt and my first thought was, “Are you kidding? What doesn’t keep me awake? Where do I start?” Here’s a truncated, but very real list:

Oh my God. Trump is still president.
I swallowed an air bubble. Shit. Am I going to die from an embolism? (Note: The night this happened, I actually got up at 1 a.m. and kissed all my kids goodbye.)
Did I lock the front door?
What are my college-aged boys doing?
I can’t believe I missed that XXX and XXX are XXX in “The Woman in the Window.”
How does Scott Pruitt sleep at night when I can’t?
What is my husband thinking about? Maybe I should ask him. I’m sure he won’t mind.
The dog didn’t poop when we went out. I know he’s going to wake me up. Or not, if I don’t fall asleep.
What if I have thyroid cancer? (I didn’t. But then I lost sleep pondering how much wait I would gain after thyroid surgery and how I would never be able to eat bread again. And then I ate bread.)
I can never go to Seattle ever again now that I know the West Coast is overdue for an earthquake/tsunami.
This house needs so much work. (Mental list-making and adding up of potential expenses ensues. Wondering how much blood I would have to sell to cover costs.)
Can indigestion be fatal if you lay down?
Is the fridge going to keep leaking? I should go put the beach towels on the floor around it.
I should have read my book tonight. I’m never going to finish it. I blog about books. I should be reading. I’m awake. But I’m lazy. (Next level self-loathing engaged.)
How many people saw me with my skirt caught in my tights before I dislodged it?
Where did I put my daughter’s birth certificate? Damnit, did I misplace it?
Maybe I can dress the part, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to figure out I’m a fraud. (Insert work role/mom role here.)
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m trying to avoid sugar. But no, I had to have that chocolate cake shake. (Master level self-loathing unlocked.)
What if North Korea bombs us?
Why do those motherf*ckers keep letting their dogs run loose in the park? THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO KEEP THE LEASH ON. ON!!! Do they think rules are optional?
Should I cut my hair?
I didn’t properly introduce myself to XXX at the conference. Now he thinks I’m that weird chick in the hotel gym that was staring at him. That’s just great.
My toe is throbbing. I must have gout. Is it gout?
I have three books to read before the weekend. Which order should I read them in?
What the f*ck?!?!? Why is Teddy in the lake?!?!?!?!

The point being, I spend a lot of time at night awake. Not so much that I am hopelessly ineffective the next day, but enough that

I should be journaling more. Writing, even in the middle of the night, often helps to shine a light on the silliness of a particular worry, or a path to resolution for the honest-to-God real problems.

Cheers to everyone else that turns the light on and grabs a pen at 2 a.m. I’m right there with you.