Only when I shared a bed with someone did it come to my attention that I’m a pretty hard-core sleepwalker.  Heaven only knows what all I did when I lived the swingin’ bachelor/empty bed life.  I don’t even want to think about it, really.  Just the fact that people have successfully used the “I didn’t know that I strangled her; I was sleepwalking” defense is enough to give me the jitters.  I hope and pray that I never do anything harmful to anyone.

My first memory of somnambulism goes back to when I was nine or ten years old.  I found myself in my sister’s bedroom at two in the morning, asking her if she had any fireworks.  She was pretty nice about it:  “What?  Ugh.  Go back to bed.”  I had no idea that something funky was going on until then.  When she said that, I thought “Why the hell am I standing here in my pajamas asking my sister whether she has any fireworks?  She must think I’m a nut.”  I guess I went back to bed and conked out, but I don’t remember doing that.  Heaven only knows what oddball zombie things I did before and after the fireworks inquiry.

Since then–and this is only stuff that I’m aware of–I have, in my sleep, tried to shoo goats off the roof, done some drywall work, flushed my pants down the toilet, and, on more than one occasion, got fully dressed and ready for work, jumped in the car and driven half-way there.  I have also rearranged the kitchen in my sleep.  Unfortunately, I put a gallon of milk in the cabinet where the appliances go.  Had to throw that out.

I often wake up with scratches and bruises that weren’t there when I went to bed.

Some stats say that the USA has way too many doctors, but I have to wait a month and a half to get an appointment with a neurologist.  Hm.