Night Shifts = Bad Mojo

I’ve noticed that I’ve been developing a strange little ritual that happens on the mornings of those odd days when I’m scheduled to work my night shifts. It involves totally cleaning up my place in an intensive and thorough manner, from ceiling to floor, room by room. I suppose I do this with hopes to exhaust myself enough such that I’m able to nap in the afternoon before the shift; also to clear away all else that may distract me after I return home the following morning, so there is a sense of having absolutely no chore, no obligation, nor any other reasons for me to stay awake once I do get home, so I can just march straight into bed and go to sleep without giving anything else special attention. It’s good in theory, but in reality, this ritual is turning out to be an exercise in futility. I still don’t get any (real) sleep at all before or after any nightshift I do. Nevertheless, I still do all this to at least gain some solace and satisfaction in knowing that things are being tidied up and put in order. I’d like to believe that an uncluttered household equates to having an uncluttered mind. However, mine doesn’t seem to be uncluttered enough to switch over my sleep patterns accordingly. I’m still searching for a non-pharmaceutical method of doing this.

Moreover, the dates for night shifts are also heralds for bad luck. I’m beginning to think that I’m cursed somehow.  Some forces of evil are seemingly working together to completely disallow me the chance for any revitalizing slumber. This kind of shit happens just too often to be coincidental. I suspect that poltergeists or gremlins triggered a car alarm in the parkade directly below me once on one of those days. I believe that the Illuminatti was once involved in a sinister plan to have a company of tree-pruners trimming the elms along my street with the loudest friggin’ chainsaws and wood chipping/mulching machines in existence. That happened one morning just after one of my night shifts. I’m sure another past incident happened starting with mysterious, anonymous phone calls being made to the city’s sewer maintenance department; then shortly after, screaming, jet-engine powered, cleaning pumps were hauled over and operated in conspicuously close proximity to my bedroom. It’s something that I could have accepted on any of the other 27 mornings of the cycle of the non-night shift dates I work, but no, it had to occur that day to thoroughly aggravate me. I don’t think I’m just being paranoid. Someone out there is out to get me.

This time around, I had to cut short the shift tonight due to some strange spinocervical pain that was really bothering me. Given what I already mentioned, I could easily conclude that there’s probably some voodoo doll of me out there somewhere with needles driven into its back and neck. Anyway, of course, that discomfort wouldn’t allow me to get much sleep at all, despite being up for 21 hours. And just to be concordant with the crappy fortune I can expect around a night shift date, I tried phoning this morning to get an appointment for a chiropractic treatment, only to discover that the fates again have conspired against me. It turns out that my practitioner is out of town for the rest of the week. Goddamnit! So now, I’m reduced to using night-time Advils in the meantime.

Whatever the case is, this recent exercise of the home cleaning ritual I’ve been doing certainly has not been proving itself to be any sort of feng-shui-esque service for getting rid of these intervals of bad karma, or bringing me good sleep. No other advice or method, no matter how well-intended, from my fellow full time co-workers or other sources, about conquering insomnia and adapting to shift work has as of yet ever worked for me. I’ve only become less capable of tolerating it all. I’m resolving to do more about all this. I’m looking more into alternative ways, like meditation.