That 3am Thing

Friday 26th February 2010, 3am, Paradiso Hostel - Kuala Lumpur - Malaysia

Insomnia has never been something I've suffered from. If anything it's quite the extreme opposite, I'm normally veering more towards narcolepsy than I am to any kind of sleep deprivation. If I am tired, there is little or nothing I can do about it, and much to Ella's annoyance have been known to pass out on many a journey by boat or plane, bus or train, before the vehicle in question has even fired up the engine, and then need to be shoved out of my temporary coma by a droopy-eyed, yawning Ms Pritchard informing me, 'We're here. You slept the whole way.' I've been like it since I was a small child apparently. There was a violent and devastating storm one night that hit the South East of England, in early 1988, I think it was. My Mother, commenting on my ability to sleep like the dead, has told me she rushed to my room that night to find me (who was still 6 months shy of 2 years at the time) far away and dreaming peacefully while the racket of the rain and wind, uprooted trees and flying roof tiles raged on outside my window.

As with my resistance to insomnia, neither am I inclined towards panic attacks. I worry about things like everyone else, but I am more disposed to sadness than I am to anxiety. There have been times in my life when I've been in periods of "upset", but this never provokes in me any particular moments of panic, no instinctual, uncontainable reactions towards stress. I've always taken the long, slow, quiet, despondent road away from trouble, not the short, fast, jittery one. I can always cry and then I can always sleep, lying awake and twitching just ain't my style.

Until tonight. I had a pretty awful 13 hour bus journey from Krabi today. By no means the longest bus ride I've taken, but very nearly the most uncomfortable. The seats were fixed at odd angles, the air conditioning either turned off or too cold, I was the only English-speaking person on the bus, there were numerous unexplained stops and starts at the roadside, a 40 minute Visa queue at the border, a lunch stop where all the food smelt like rotting pig flesh, the scar tissue from an old ballet injury in my hamstring throbbed away, and a jobsworth at passport control who didn't believe that me (mahogany skinned, glasses on, lion-haired) and the photo in my passport (straightening ironed locks, fuller faced, contact lenses in, English Winter complexion) were the same person. With a line of hundreds tutting behind me I had to put my glasses on the desk, pull down on my unruly hair and say 'Now imagine me as a fatter White person.' This did the trick.

When I arrived in Kuala Lumpur this evening it would be fair to say that I was already a bit hacked off. The bus did as they always do: drop you wherever they feel like parking, pretend not to understand English when you ask for directions, point you towards crooked taxi rank. My very own crooked cabbie, armed with the precise address of my pre-booked room, drove me around for 10 minutes before bringing me back to exactly the same spot where we had started - turns out I'd unknowingly been a minute away from the hostel. Sure he only charged me 2 quid, but out here that buys dinner. My spirits lifted slightly when I plodded through the door of my accommodation. The owner, a camp and kitsch, excitable little fellow who reminded me a little bit of Willy Wonka bellowed 'Aha! You must be our Grace Kelly!'. It's a great hostel; big communal areas, TV lounge, rooftop terrace, comfy, cool dorm rooms, and yet...

It was late when I got here, well 11ish, so not that late, and everyone else was tucked up in bed drifting off to sleep, no one wanted to talk to me. The owner bounded through the door of my bedroom followed by his army of Oompa Loompas (OK, not really, I made that bit up) and enthusiastically announced my arrival to the other 3 girls in bunk beds before introducing them like a Saturday night TV compere as 'Olivia Newton-John, Pamela Anderson, and Alexandra the Great!'. But Liv, Pam and Alex weren't so friendly and barely afforded me a polite nod as I entered, the Charlie of the Chocolate Factory, grinning and eager for company and conversation. Would it be xenophobic of me to mention at this point that all 3 girls are German? Not that I'm insinuating anything of course... joyless, hard-nosed bores.

So now, well actually about 3 hours ago now, I went to bed too. I tried walking around on my own for a while but the humidity is unbearable, there are Malaysian hoodlums everywhere calling me 'baby' and asking if I will be their wife, and I haven't got a map yet, so I was bound to get lost. I should be tired, but I can't sleep. I'm painfully wide awake and indulging in one of those early morning torture sessions where you allow your brain to spend time dwelling on everything in the recent past, present and future which make your stomach feel like it's taken residency in your throat. I've never had a panic attack before so am no authority on the diagnosing, maybe someone can clear it up for me: sweaty palms, dry mouth, heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest, brain ticking and sending off alarm bells like a cuckoo clock on Speed, shaking hands, beginnings of a headache, shortness of breath, and the almost uncontrollable urge to run away, anywhere, very fast.

What's wrong with me? I can't sleep and I'm fraught with nervous energy despite having no real reason to be, normally I would have just cried myself in to slumber land by now! Maybe I just need someone to talk to. Or some chocolate.