In the run-up to Christmas 2018, wobbly with delirium on a station platform packed with partygoers, I nearly fell under a train. Insomnia – not the “I woke at 3am for a bit” type, but the brutalising “I might have dropped off for a fretful 45 minutes at around 6am” kind – will do that to a person.
I have rarely slept well. But this particular stretch of insomnia was, almost literally, a killer. I’d tried every snake oil on the market. A Harley Street hypnotist gave up on me after two sessions. Prescription sleeping pills stopped working. As a last resort, I tried the eight-week NHS cognitive behavioural therapy course for insomnia. It involved a tedious sleep diary, increasing “sleep pressure” by forcing myself to stay up until 2am and strengthening the “bed-sleep connection” by sacrificing my bedtime read. Far from helping, these strategies ramped up my frustration. Then I found one thing that did work – something I had dismissed as the preserve of man buns and pseudo-spiritualists: meditation.
