#for the blessedly uninitiated

[eroguron0nsense]

Portgas D. Ace Rant #21223

Sometimes I just think about how profoundly neglected child Ace was and how little the adults in charge of raising him –namely Garp and Dadan– were capable of understanding his emotional needs or the severe guilt and self hatred they'd basically allowed him to wallow in. Ignoring the child neglect played for comic effect, none of them have anything to contribute when Ace is visibly distressed by the constant reminders that Roger is hated by all, that his father was allegedly a monster, and to a certain extent we can guess that Garp probably played a role in fostering it. Even his attempts to actually support Ace (specifically the "You'll see as you live" line) don't really address the fundamental issue of suicidal depression and issues of self worth, and probably kind of inadvertently made it harder for this suicidal 10 year old to rationalize the very basic notion that he deserves/ that anyone wants him to be alive. Even his friendship with Sabo, which provides him with at least some of the companionship he's been deprived of, isn't anywhere near enough to address that kind of fundamental depression and neglect, and the only thing he knows how to do in response is to take out his frustration on an even smaller, younger, neglected child.

(It's also highly likely that he's aware, on some level or another, of the atrocities committed during the military's search for him, and he's definitely aware that Rouge forfeited her life for him, so this notion that his existence is cursed is reinforced by severe survivor's guilt)

It says a lot that the first person to provide Ace with any amount of the affirmation he desperately needs is Luffy, who out of all the people around Ace should by right be the least equipped to emotionally support him, just by saying that he wants to be around Ace and he's glad that Ace exists.

[ef-1]

dear kate, as someone who wasn't watching the sport back then I'm very curious about what happened in russia 2018 (re your tags on that post)?

it's lore. Daniel/Christian lore. horrible, awful, multifaceted human lore. when you watch a little thing, just an awful real moment and it reminds you that people are unfortunately complex and love is prideful, and sometimes love is selfish and love manifests differently in different people.

Russia 2018 was Max's birthday, Red Bull got a marching band and mimes to welcome Max into the paddock, it was a v elaborate and uncomfortable affair for everyone involved, and there was a cake cutting ceremony once Max walked the length of the paddock where the rest of the team were waiting for him.

Mind you, this was at the END of September, Daniel announced his departure from Red Bull at the very beginning of August, so it had already been almost 2 months of Christian calling Daniel stupid, and a girl, and that he took the easy way out but also Christians time during the sessions up until then was split equally in Daniel's garage and Max's but after that for a while it was the pitwall or Max's side.

Anyway back to Max's uncomfortable birthday, Daniel was also there but he didn't stand with Helmut and Christian at the front, he was uncharacteristically stood away from them, and away from the cameras. Daniel is usually front and centre during moments like these but I think it was a combination of how insanely uncomfortable the whole mime/marching band combo is and also the fact that he was no longer really 'part' of the team. Christian had already said Daniel will not be involved in the remaining development of the car effective immediately.

The official video that Red Bull posted(still up on yt) didn't really show it but Christian was the most uncomfortable/annoyed by the whole thing, more so than Max somehow lol

In the unofficial janky live stream of the whole thing however Christian kept turning back to Daniel who was behind everyone and it was very much an 'oh.' gut punch moment because it's just a real little human interaction of turning to someone you know/trust/relate to. And I just remember thinking that's like the first bit of normalcy we've seen from them since the torrid separation

Anyway really the most devastating part is from the janky live stream, one of the times Christian bodily turns to Daniel (twice) to catch his eye, Daniel kinda just laughs and tells him "you're not dancing" to which Christian replies by actually dancing for a second

this janky clip from a janky stream was a formative moment

[aschlindartroom]

(from @flowerprose)

For the prompts: “Tell me something I can do for you today.”

Aw, thanks @flowerprose!

A little HartMart drabble. Pardon any grammatical errors.

-----

It had been close to two years since Hightower had been installed as his ADC Liaison, and six months since they had begun Eckehart’s whirlwind cultural exploration. Each day came accompanied by a new experience— Hightower quietly sliding a flavorful, expensive cup of coffee across his desk; a lunch-time hair appointment from a blessedly quiet, delicate barber; an evening at the Midtown library, enjoying the latest exhibition; a late-night drink at a bar he’d never been to, overlooking the Midtown skyline in a way he’d never seen before. New perspectives. Hightower arranged it all somehow, effortlessly, and without an ounce of grumbling.

Not that Eckehart would have expected the man to grumble. Hightower had insisted on the whole thing himself. Still, it wasn’t like the man didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to. Networking with the ADC Representatives and their assistants was a task enough without all of the extra work he piled on. This week, he was managing negotiations with Barclay’s labor unions and Barclay, for all his good qualities and loyalty to his district’s livelihood, was a piece of work on a good day. How Hightower managed, while still maintaining his prestine appearance and razor sharp tongue, was an absolute mystery.

By 3 PM, Eckehart had cleared off his desk for the day and was playing a game of chess with himself when the door to his office opened. Hightower had long done away with knocking, which didn’t bother Eckehart as much as it probably should have. Normally, he walked with energy— intimidating and aware. Today Hightower entered slowly, closing the door only to lean back against it. He sighed, heavy and tired, and stood there for a few moments. Eckehart was tucked away in the far side of the office. Had Hightower not seen him when he entered?

He took the rare opportunity to see Hightower off his game, running his gaze along the vulnerable line of the man’s throat, bared and unsuspecting. His closed eyes,

Eckehart’s elbow slipped and knocked a pawn from the chess board and onto the floor. Hightower twisted, surprised, but immediately relaxed at the sight of Eckehart, who was scrambling to grab the rogue chess piece.

“Ah, you’re here,” Hightower said, straightening his suit.

“It’s my office,” Eckehart said, a tad more testy than he truly felt.

“You do have a budget committee scheduled for this time,” Hightower responded, sounding a tad testy himself. They watched each other. Hightower cleared his throat and approached. “Barclay is amenable to our workplace reform plan. I have Lila working with his special council to ensure that the final negotiations are reflected in the written agreement. It should come through tomorrow, if Barclay does not find something else to hem and haw about.”

Standing beside him, Eckehart saw for the first time how harried the man looked. Perhaps to the uninitiated eye, Hightower looked normal, if a bit tired. Eckehart noted the bags under his eyes, the slight hunch of his shoulders. Hightower assessed the state of his chess board.

“Who’s move?” he asked.

“White,” Eckehart said, gesturing to the opposite side of the board.

Hightower nodded, considered, then moved the rook. Two moves from checkmate now. He looked over his handy work before straightening, satisfied. “I’ll be off again in a few minutes,” he said. He turned to walk away, lacking that usual spring in his step. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“Tell me something I can do for you today,” Eckehart blurted.

Hightower paused mid-step, straightening with his back turned. Eckehart resisted the urge to cover his own mouth. A breath of silence passed between them. Hightower turned on his heel to look at Eckehart, eyebrow raised.

“Sorry?”

Eckehart sighed. The words would come out far less friendly the second time. Maybe if Hightower wasn’t watching him like that, slightly dumbfounded…

“You’re busy, and I clearly have time on my hands.” He gestured to the chess board in front of him.

The smile Hightower gave him now was honest, rare in its lack of pretense, amused, and Eckehart looked away from it. He felt his face grow hot and raised his hand in warning. “Don’t make it a big deal. Obviously, you’re perfectly capable. Watching you run around when you’re clearly so tired is exhausting. I’m bored. That’s all.”

Hightower had approached Eckehart’s chair again without Eckehart noticing. Eckehart craned his neck to look up. Hightower smiled down at him, still sincere and now softened by a fondness. Gentle. Eckehart blinked at him. He was about ready to jump out of his skin when the man finally looked away. He stared out at Midtown, thoughtful.

“Now that you mention it, I’m famished,” Hightower said. “I have an appointment that will last about an hour. Just in time for an early dinner, maybe?” He walked toward the office door, heels clicking on the marble floor in his retreat. “Order us something.”

Eckehart felt an unfamiliar panic— like a child given permission to man the stove and suddenly afraid to muck it up. He stood from his chair. “What do you want?” he asked, quickly. Hightower was already at the door.

Hightower did not look back, but there was a smile in his voice. It came soft. “Surprise me,” he said.

[luminashdawnwing]

Trading Favors (Part IV)

Part I, II, III

(Note: The story thus far takes place between the opening of Revendreth and the end of the leveling story)

Luminash had ample time to take in the rugged - he could not call it beauty necessarily, though it had its grandeur nonetheless - crags and valleys of the Ember Ward while he waited on the Sinfall overlook. His companions, Nelyne and Grigori, had gone below with the chest of sinstones they had pilfered from the house of Lord Bloodwatch. Evidently, he was not permitted entry just yet, something about the Prince - word was that he had only recently been snatched back to safety from the Maw itself! - and his favored preparing some great endeavor.

The Light that beat down upon the land and all who dwelled there felt, in its essence, the same as that of the Sunwell. A sense of warmth, yes, but there was something else: a distinct sense of wrath, of righteous indignation that made what should have offered hope and solace an oppressive burden, even to the magister himself. He found himself squinting, blinded not only by the Light, but by its reflection off the bleached, dusty canyons below.

Sinfall, in comparison, was positively dreary, at least what he had seen of it. The Ember Court had no doubt been impressive once, but it was now merely a ruin, crumbled and nearly forgotten. Only a few lingering Venthyr measured their steps among the ruins, shaded by their ornate black parasols. They moved quickly and with purpose, clearly none too eager to be in this Light-blasted place.

He was broken from his reflection on his surroundings by the crunching of footsteps behind him. It was a curious mixture of boots on cobblestone and the grinding of soles on coarse pebbles, the Light-scorched soil blown all about by the winds of the valley and gathering even here.

“Follow, magister,” came Grigori’s voice, an aristocratic tone spoken much through the nose, “That is what you said you were on our way here, no?” He did not wait for a response, knowing full well his question scarcely required one, “Nelyne is still below with the Prince. All will be departing soon, but before that, we may have information you might find useful for your…” The Venthyr waved his hand vaguely, a gesture Luminash himself chuckled at, so commonly did he do the same, “Ah, trading deal with the Brokers.”

Turning and falling in behind Grigori, Luminash raised a brow, curiosity piqued, “And what might this information be? If you have a decent idea on how to both obtain a Maldraxxi phylactery and the wing of an Ascended of all things without finding myself tossed into the Maw, please, do share.”

Grigori turned over his shoulder to look sidelong at the elf trailing him as he spoke, cool and calm, “I can, in fact, share that information. You have come to the Shadowlands at quite an eventful time. The word is from Oribos that Maldraxxus and Bastion are at war of all things! Though I am unsure how accurate this statement is. Some of those visiting the Eternal City seem intent on little more than sightseeing.” The Venthyr cleared his throat, “Regardless, the Houses are at odds, with the Houses of Constructs and Rituals making some sort of alliance. Gossip is that one has made away with the bodies of many fallen Ascended, the other… Well, I need not spell it out.” He narrowed his eyes, their golden glow reduced to a thin line, “Or so I hope.”

As the magister listened, he grew visibly more relieved, “So a trip to Maldraxxus is in order.”

“It would seem so. Then, however, it would be...pleasing to us,” Grigori added, his voice dripping in thinly-veiled sarcasm, “If you were to return and join us here. Though the Prince and his loyal Harvesters will be away, the Accuser has a request of you.”

The magister followed Grigori down a series of stone-hewn, unspeakably ancient steps, down away from the Light that beat down much as the sun at summer’s height. The air here was blessedly cool.

“I should specify, for the...uninitiated.” Grigori permitted himself a brief bark of laughter, “The Accuser is Prince Renathal’s right hand, the Harvester of Pride. She wrings the souls of our charges dry of their hubris and redeems them.” A pause, “Or they are torn apart, or cast into the Maw, unrepentant, but this is - was - rare. Now?”

“They are yet more fuel for the fires of the Maw, aren’t they?”

The Venthyr nodded, “Just so. They are cast in without a fair chance to save themselves, to change. That is who we are, magister, we are the changed.” He held out his left hand, as if feeling the weight of something, “Crushed under our crimes, our selfishness, we are brought here.” His right hand now, giving him much the appearance of a scale, “In the end, we are cleansed, freed from the burdens of our past - do not tell those insufferably smug Kyrian a Venthyr said such a thing! - and serve in our way, here or elsewhere.”

“The Accuser, then, has need of these souls. I think I know where you are going with this, Grigori.”

“Indeed.” The Venthyr stopped at a curtained alcove in the crypt-like hall winding down into Sinfall’s depths and waited for Luminash to arrive before drawing back the curtain and ushering him inside, “And we believe that the item you aim to procure from the Brokers may help us find them again - them, and perhaps a few of these as well.” Within the alcove was the chest of sinstones recovered from the Bloodwatch estate. It appeared to be emptier than before, many of the fragments having been removed, it seemed.

“The true names of your resistance, have I remembered correctly?” Luminash slid into the room, followed by Grigori, who let the curtain fall behind them.

“These? No. Those we have already removed and hidden for ourselves. These are names unknown to any of us here in Sinfall. Which begs the question of whose, precisely, they are. Given Ivan’s desire to weed out traitors to our fool of a Master,” Grigori positively sneered as that title left his lips, his eyes just short of a derisive roll, “We’ve our suspicions.”

Luminash rested a hand on the lip of the chest, head canted as his eyes skimmed over the sinstones, their names, and especially - with a morbid curiosity - their crimes. A multitude of crimes, lifetimes upon lifetimes of hubris, “Who are they?”

“The way the Accuser sees it, and I see no fault with her reasoning, is that they are the Avowed. Those loyal to Revendreth’s heart, our ideals, who continue to cleanse and redeem the souls entrusted to us.” Grigori leaned against the cold stone wall, clawed fingers drumming against it.

“Yet you disagree?”

“I never said that!” The Venthyr snapped, shaking his head, “Ah, no, I do not disagree exactly, only think it might be that - or another possibility - or both, even.” He pursed his lips, “I knew Ivan once, long ago. An arrogant fool, obsessed with his own standing, a perfect image of everything now going wrong with Revendreth. He was never loyal to the Master. He was loyal to himself.”

Luminash’s lips curled into a smirk, “And so he had a bank of blackmail against the Master’s loyalists too, didn’t he? Which may just conveniently give us - or you, I should say; I’ve agreed to nothing of yet - a list.”

“Sinstones are linked inextricably to the soul of those whose crimes they bear, and if your Broker device can follow, as you say, the strands of anima…” Grigori shrugged, eyes following Luminash’s hands as they ran along the damaged sinstones, “Then a list, as you say. You can tell, I do hope, what one might wish to do with either our Avowed allies or our loyalist enemies.”

While they spoke, Luminash felt as if a stone had dropped into his stomach. His eyes had caught a name etched into one of the stones, and the hand that had been so idly running along their broken edges stopped. In barely enough time for the magister to take in what was carved into the stone, with movement so fast he could scarcely react to pull his hand away, the chest was snapped shut, Grigori looming over him. He could not be sure, but Luminash thought he saw a hint of fear in the Venthyr’s eyes.

“Go to Maldraxxus, complete your deal with those charlatans. Then return, if you see fit. Know, though, that what we offer may be the greatest use of your skills, and the broker bauble of yours, that you will find here, hm?” Grigori met Luminash’s eyes, whatever passed for fear replaced once more by a calm, measured gaze.

                                           **************************

In his hand, Luminash turned the relic of the First Ones over, again and again, its delicately carved geometric insets pressing against the magister’s palms. A dagger traded, Cartel Ta’s damage control done, the door was his, yet the key remained. An excursion to Maldraxxus, a delivery to Ba’net in Bastion, and that too would be his. With the proper scrying, it might well be a door directly to all the souls lost in the Nazmir muck, a lifeline, a blessed tether that might bring them if not back to their families, at least to where their proper afterlives.

On the other hand, the Venthyr certainly could use the aid, Luminash knew. Souls in need of redemption lost to the darkness was a worthy cause, especially as the Master’s loyalists bolstered themselves against what passed for resistance at Sinfall.

Or could it even be a more personal obligation? Luminash felt the weight of the stone pressing against his palm, fingers tracing the honeycomb geometry. There had been the matter of that final sinstone and its crimes, its words seen but for a brief moment burned all the same into the magister’s mind:

A researcher whose instruments charted the skies and the stars of the Great Dark, he advanced the cause of his science and all knowledge. Knowledge everywhere is power, and power was his true reward.

Honorable and honest in all his public dealings, his name became a byword among his peers for unwavering character. In private, his unblemished word was replaced with a bloodied dagger, leaving none left to question him.

Dedicated to his family, his keen political mind led his family to the heights of power and prestige. Loyal beyond all else to his Queen and his legacy, in her name he sent his family hurtling from the heights into the abyss.

Scholar; brute.

A man worthy of trust; a knife in the back.

Loving father; traitor.

For his intellect, his virtue, and his service, he deserves redemption. For his avarice, wrath, and pride he has come to us. Let these be washed away and let him be made anew.

Lanestrian Dawnwing.

[lindyhunt]

How I Learned to Sleep Better (and Deal With Insomnia)

About a year into my first real job, as a junior editor at Toronto Life, I arrived at my performance review—a breakfast meeting scheduled for 9 a.m.—25 minutes late. I’d been wild with nerves the night before and couldn’t sleep. At 4 a.m., I made the decision—the kind of decision you make at 4 a.m.—to pop a trusty tranq. I was in my mid-20s and deep into an Imovane phase—my blue period. (For the blissfully uninitiated, the tablets are Smurf blue.) I recall arriving at the restaurant to meet my boss with about as much grace and limb control as Molly Ringwald’s older sister, Ginny, in Sixteen Candles—in that scene when Ginny staggers down the aisle on muscle relaxants.

This was hardly my first nuit blanche. Even when I was a child, the prospect of a sleepover roused in me an unholy dread. I’d lie there fantasizing about things like fainting and the first flush of dawn while my friends fell, with infuriating immediacy, into the deepest slumber. I proceeded to go through much of high school and university popping a great variety of over-the-counter sleep aids like Skittles. Many years have passed since those days, and I (blessedly) struggle less with insomnia than I once did. I have a toddler now, and one of the secret upsides to being a brand-new parent is, as far as I can tell, a kind of advanced level of mind-blunting exhaustion that got rid of my insomnia: In that first postpartum year, I basically went from being an insomniac to a narcoleptic, expertly dropping into short comas more often than most soap opera characters.

Unfortunately, I have not definitively put the problem to bed. Whenever I feel anxious or nervous, I tend to stop sleeping. A few months ago I turned 40, and I was visited by a fresh bout of insomnia. In fact, this official passage into middle age felt something like staying up until 4 a.m.—a realization that I had only so much time left and that the quality time might be behind me. I’d lie awake, stricken by my hyperactive tag team of worries (professional, financial, familial, etc.), while my son, Leo, slept soundly in his crib. Friends of mine asked me, vis-à-vis his REM habits, if I had “sleep trained” him. And I realized that Leo doesn’t need sleep training; I do. So, by the way, does my husband. There are different kinds of insomniacs—including those who have trouble falling asleep (me) and those who wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble falling back to sleep (husband). We are sleep-crossed. It now occurs to me that in our early candlelit dating days, I should have asked him “So, what kind of insomniac are you?”

We are not alone in our respective sleep issues. At least 30 per cent of Americans are sleep deprived, and 15 per cent are getting less than five hours a night. (Most adults need between seven and eight hours.) In Canada, nearly two-thirds of adults report feeling tired “most of the time.” Arianna Huffington’s book The Sleep Revolution explores (in exhaustive detail) how we, as a culture, are in the throes of a sleep crisis but are too disordered to acknowledge it. Huffington, by the way, was inspired to write the book after collapsing from burnout at her desk and breaking her cheekbone. As a civilization held in thrall to ideals of productivity and stamina, we devalue sleep, deeming rest the indulgent hobby of the weak. But, Huffington argues, if we can rehabilitate our relationship with sleep (as in, get more of it) we can improve our lives, be more successful and discover joy. We can also, evidently, be smarter—or, if not smarter, then less stupid.

If we’re in the midst of an epidemic of exhaustion, we might also be on some kind of zombie walk toward an “age of idiocy.” As published by the American Academy of Neurology, researchers discovered that persistent sleep deprivation is associated with a decline in brain volume. A 2014 study from Duke-NUS Graduate Medical School established that the less we sleep as we grow older, the faster our brains age. A lack of sleep can lead to an irrevocable (irrevocable!) loss of brain cells. So, if I feel stupider now than I did 10 years ago, it’s because I am.

One piece of advice I encounter is to analyze my sleep environment. I take this advice quite literally and retire my springy, overtired mattress in favour of a new one, specifically a Casper. “As humans, we’ve been trained to think about sleep as something we have to do, as opposed to something we want to do,” says Neil Parikh, chief operating officer for Casper. Parikh, whose father was a sleep doctor and who has the clear, bouncy voice of the well rested, continues “When we were kids, what was the punishment our parents gave us? It was often ‘Go to your room! Go to sleep early!’ So, since childhood, it has been rooted in our psyche that sleep is a negative thing.” But we don’t need to follow the rigid latteless, wineless (and generally joyless) prescription of yore to excel at sleep. “When there are too many rules, you say to yourself ‘This is too difficult; I give up!’ he says. “It’s the 80/20 rule. There are high-yield things that would make a huge difference.” And the Casper does make a big difference. It manages “motion transfer,” which means that when my husband gets up in the night, I no longer feel like the boy in Life of Pi, clinging to the edge of a raft.

I also seek the counsel of a sleep doctor and catch a repulsively early flight to New York to speak with Dr. Rebecca Robbins about the need to prioritize sleep. Robbins, of NYU’s School of Medicine and co-author of Sleep for Success: Everything You Wanted to Know About Sleep But Were Too Tired to Ask, tells me that consistency is the cornerstone of good sleep and that I should go to bed and wake up at the same time every day (even on weekends). Imposing this kind of routine can be challenging with a toddler, however, as Leo is my alarm clock. Robbins also orders me to turn off all electronics before bed. (Basking in the blue light of our smartphones suppresses the release of sleep-inducing melatonin, tricking our minds into thinking it’s daytime.) She also extols the soporific, therapeutic delights of engaging in pre-bed rituals, like applying a fragrant sleep mask.

I follow doctor’s orders. I apply Amorepacific’s Time Response Skin Renewal Sleeping Masque, which is scented with a rest-inducing cocktail of neroli, rose, ylang-ylang, sandalwood and bergamot. (If I don’t wake up rested, at least I will look the part.) And while my phone is enjoying a full night’s sleep in the other room (I adopt a no-phone-gazing-after-10-p.m. rule) and my face is lavished in calming botanicals, I cozy up to my Casper to follow Huffington’s advice on sleeping with a snorer. “If trying to get the snorer to stop doesn’t work, you can try changing how you react to snoring,” she says, recommending that one learn to enjoy the sound of it. The attempt to pretend that this nasal soundtrack is as mellifluous as, say, the sound of a Mozart clarinet concerto is exhausting and one I decide to put to bed. But that particular failure aside, a few weeks into my new sleep regimen, I will admit that I am feeling and sleeping better than I have in years. I’d prefer not to consider just how many years (counting years is not like counting sheep)—I can’t afford to lose any more sleep.

[jessicakehoe]

How I Learned to Sleep Better (and Deal With Insomnia)

About a year into my first real job, as a junior editor at Toronto Life, I arrived at my performance review—a breakfast meeting scheduled for 9 a.m.—25 minutes late. I’d been wild with nerves the night before and couldn’t sleep. At 4 a.m., I made the decision—the kind of decision you make at 4 a.m.—to pop a trusty tranq. I was in my mid-20s and deep into an Imovane phase—my blue period. (For the blissfully uninitiated, the tablets are Smurf blue.) I recall arriving at the restaurant to meet my boss with about as much grace and limb control as Molly Ringwald’s older sister, Ginny, in Sixteen Candles—in that scene when Ginny staggers down the aisle on muscle relaxants.

This was hardly my first nuit blanche. Even when I was a child, the prospect of a sleepover roused in me an unholy dread. I’d lie there fantasizing about things like fainting and the first flush of dawn while my friends fell, with infuriating immediacy, into the deepest slumber. I proceeded to go through much of high school and university popping a great variety of over-the-counter sleep aids like Skittles. Many years have passed since those days, and I (blessedly) struggle less with insomnia than I once did. I have a toddler now, and one of the secret upsides to being a brand-new parent is, as far as I can tell, a kind of advanced level of mind-blunting exhaustion that got rid of my insomnia: In that first postpartum year, I basically went from being an insomniac to a narcoleptic, expertly dropping into short comas more often than most soap opera characters.

Unfortunately, I have not definitively put the problem to bed. Whenever I feel anxious or nervous, I tend to stop sleeping. A few months ago I turned 40, and I was visited by a fresh bout of insomnia. In fact, this official passage into middle age felt something like staying up until 4 a.m.—a realization that I had only so much time left and that the quality time might be behind me. I’d lie awake, stricken by my hyperactive tag team of worries (professional, financial, familial, etc.), while my son, Leo, slept soundly in his crib. Friends of mine asked me, vis-à-vis his REM habits, if I had “sleep trained” him. And I realized that Leo doesn’t need sleep training; I do. So, by the way, does my husband. There are different kinds of insomniacs—including those who have trouble falling asleep (me) and those who wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble falling back to sleep (husband). We are sleep-crossed. It now occurs to me that in our early candlelit dating days, I should have asked him “So, what kind of insomniac are you?”

We are not alone in our respective sleep issues. At least 30 per cent of Americans are sleep deprived, and 15 per cent are getting less than five hours a night. (Most adults need between seven and eight hours.) In Canada, nearly two-thirds of adults report feeling tired “most of the time.” Arianna Huffington’s book The Sleep Revolution explores (in exhaustive detail) how we, as a culture, are in the throes of a sleep crisis but are too disordered to acknowledge it. Huffington, by the way, was inspired to write the book after collapsing from burnout at her desk and breaking her cheekbone. As a civilization held in thrall to ideals of productivity and stamina, we devalue sleep, deeming rest the indulgent hobby of the weak. But, Huffington argues, if we can rehabilitate our relationship with sleep (as in, get more of it) we can improve our lives, be more successful and discover joy. We can also, evidently, be smarter—or, if not smarter, then less stupid.

If we’re in the midst of an epidemic of exhaustion, we might also be on some kind of zombie walk toward an ���age of idiocy.” As published by the American Academy of Neurology, researchers discovered that persistent sleep deprivation is associated with a decline in brain volume. A 2014 study from Duke-NUS Graduate Medical School established that the less we sleep as we grow older, the faster our brains age. A lack of sleep can lead to an irrevocable (irrevocable!) loss of brain cells. So, if I feel stupider now than I did 10 years ago, it’s because I am.

One piece of advice I encounter is to analyze my sleep environment. I take this advice quite literally and retire my springy, overtired mattress in favour of a new one, specifically a Casper. “As humans, we’ve been trained to think about sleep as something we have to do, as opposed to something we want to do,” says Neil Parikh, chief operating officer for Casper. Parikh, whose father was a sleep doctor and who has the clear, bouncy voice of the well rested, continues “When we were kids, what was the punishment our parents gave us? It was often ‘Go to your room! Go to sleep early!’ So, since childhood, it has been rooted in our psyche that sleep is a negative thing.” But we don’t need to follow the rigid latteless, wineless (and generally joyless) prescription of yore to excel at sleep. “When there are too many rules, you say to yourself ‘This is too difficult; I give up!’ he says. “It’s the 80/20 rule. There are high-yield things that would make a huge difference.” And the Casper does make a big difference. It manages “motion transfer,” which means that when my husband gets up in the night, I no longer feel like the boy in Life of Pi, clinging to the edge of a raft.

I also seek the counsel of a sleep doctor and catch a repulsively early flight to New York to speak with Dr. Rebecca Robbins about the need to prioritize sleep. Robbins, of NYU’s School of Medicine and co-author of Sleep for Success: Everything You Wanted to Know About Sleep But Were Too Tired to Ask, tells me that consistency is the cornerstone of good sleep and that I should go to bed and wake up at the same time every day (even on weekends). Imposing this kind of routine can be challenging with a toddler, however, as Leo is my alarm clock. Robbins also orders me to turn off all electronics before bed. (Basking in the blue light of our smartphones suppresses the release of sleep-inducing melatonin, tricking our minds into thinking it’s daytime.) She also extols the soporific, therapeutic delights of engaging in pre-bed rituals, like applying a fragrant sleep mask.

I follow doctor’s orders. I apply Amorepacific’s Time Response Skin Renewal Sleeping Masque, which is scented with a rest-inducing cocktail of neroli, rose, ylang-ylang, sandalwood and bergamot. (If I don’t wake up rested, at least I will look the part.) And while my phone is enjoying a full night’s sleep in the other room (I adopt a no-phone-gazing-after-10-p.m. rule) and my face is lavished in calming botanicals, I cozy up to my Casper to follow Huffington’s advice on sleeping with a snorer. “If trying to get the snorer to stop doesn’t work, you can try changing how you react to snoring,” she says, recommending that one learn to enjoy the sound of it. The attempt to pretend that this nasal soundtrack is as mellifluous as, say, the sound of a Mozart clarinet concerto is exhausting and one I decide to put to bed. But that particular failure aside, a few weeks into my new sleep regimen, I will admit that I am feeling and sleeping better than I have in years. I’d prefer not to consider just how many years (counting years is not like counting sheep)—I can’t afford to lose any more sleep.

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