A 10,000-year-old basket? Here’s how social media helps her when sleep is impossible

My dad used to actively worry if others were getting enough sleep. He was an extraordinarily compassionate man, always concerned about the well-being of those around him.

He also projected his profound love for sleep on everyone else, and as a result was in a constant state of mild alarm over tales of late nights or early mornings. He often expressed unusual concern if he noticed someone yawning.

“Get some rest” was a tagline that he often appended to otherwise run-of-the-mill farewells. He sometimes extended the sentiment to people who did not know him well enough to understand how much he relished a good night’s sleep and how crucial he felt it was to anyone’s well-being. A friend, perplexed by his unusual sendoff, once asked me if she had bags under her eyes and I had to explain that he simply wished her an indulgent stretch of peace and rest.

Dad would not approve of my current sleep schedule. I’m quite practiced at waking up multiple times a night. For years, I slept instinctively attuned to the sounds of fussy babies, then clingy toddlers escaping their cribs to sneak in for cuddles. Those nights were replaced by having to hop out of bed at the subtle sound of elderly dogs pacing nervously because they needed to potty. But even nights I had to get out of bed several times, I could fall right back to sleep.

But the pandemic shattered what normalcy my sleep patterns had retained. Low-key depression and boredom caused me to long for sleep. As soon as it got dark, I watched the clock until it was late enough to go to bed, trying to hold out until at least 9 p.m. But staying asleep became a struggle. The pervasive anxiety that had settled over the entire globe would niggle me awake in the wee hours of the night, and the bliss of sleep was replaced by hours of racing thoughts and worry.

When my dad passed away, alone, from COVID, my sleep further deteriorated. I’d awaken to sudden, intense bursts of grief and anger, like unexpected, discordant staccatos sprinkled jarringly through a lullaby.

I stopped trying to sleep. I found it better to get out of bed and give my mind a place to go, somewhere other than the cruel and chaotic mind-racing that comes with insomnia. I took moonlit walks, drove my car aimlessly, washed dishes, watched countless dog-rescue videos on my phone.

Together, social media algorithms and I learned about previously unexplored interests, my feed soon filling with articles about odd archaeological finds. I’d never before considered that a lengthy article about a basket created 10,000 years ago could capture my attention.

I learned that sometimes it’s OK to not sleep, I can get by on just a few hours on occasion. I learned not to judge myself, not to fall into the ridiculous trap of not being able to sleep because I’m so busy worrying about not being able to sleep.

Middle-of-the-night thoughts spiral and swell into violent storms. They cause floods of regret and batter my sense of security, leaving me emotionally ragged. Those exact same thoughts are easily managed when I’m wide awake.

Dad would be very worried if he knew that I’ve reduced my sleep standards to a dismissive, “Meh, I won’t die if I don’t get back to sleep.” But he also understood the burdens of anxiety and worry, and I hope he would rest assured knowing that I’ve learned to trade in miserable, sleepless hours for weightless, unrestricted moments of puttering around, which is another way of getting some rest.

Emily Parnell lives in Overland Park and can be reached at emily@emilyjparnell.com.