Category: mental health

The Language of Survival: On Mental Illness, Resilience, and First Love

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I’ve always believed that the most courageous stories are not about rescue, but about return—how we come back to ourselves after the mind has turned against us. When I write about mental illness, I don’t write from a distance. I write from the thin edge of it—from the quiet hours where thought unravels and the only lifeline is language. Each of my novels—Secret Whispers, Déjà Vu, and Of Laughter & Heartbreak—was born out of that liminal space between fear and faith, between survival and surrender.

These books aren’t companions by chronology, but by spirit. Each follows a young woman whose inner world threatens to eclipse the outer one, and each discovers that love—whether romantic, platonic, or self-forged—is the most powerful form of recovery we have.

1. The Mind as Haunted House: Secret Whispers

When I wrote Secret Whispers, I began with an image: a house stitched together by secrets, its silence louder than any scream. Inside it lives Adria—a painter, sister, caretaker, and reluctant witness to her own unraveling.

Schizophrenia shadows her family line, coiling like a whispered curse. Her brother’s breakdown has already split the household in half. Her mother holds everything together with brittle faith. And Adria, caught between caretaking and collapse, begins to hear the same whispers that once took him away.

I wanted to write honestly about what it means to live with a mind you can’t fully trust—the terror of not knowing whether what you see is symptom or sight. But I also wanted to write about love: the improbable, incandescent kind that dares to root itself in fractured soil.

In Secret Whispers, love doesn’t save Adria. It steadies her. The boy who sees her—awkward, hopeful, honest—doesn’t fix her illness; he becomes a mirror in which she can see more than diagnosis. Their love flickers like a candle in a draft, fragile yet real, proof that connection is possible even when perception splinters.

Adria’s resilience isn’t loud. It’s made of small gestures: washing a brush, opening a window, whispering not today when the shadows come. Recovery, I learned while writing her, is not a staircase but a spiral—you circle the same fears until you finally face them without flinching.

2. Déjà Vu: The Loops of the Bipolar Mind

If Secret Whispers was about hearing too much, Déjà Vu was about feeling too much—about living inside a mind where memory and mania blur.

Ivy Lancaster is eighteen, brilliant, impulsive, and newly diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She experiences life in echoes: every stranger’s face feels familiar, every nightmare seems rehearsed, every choice loops back like a record caught on its scratch.

The first time I wrote Ivy walking through the parking lot at dawn, barefoot and disoriented, I felt the pulse of the entire novel—this young woman spinning in the orbit of her own brain, terrified of herself yet desperate to be believed.

Déjà Vu is not just a psychological thriller; it’s an emotional x-ray of bipolarity. Mania is painted not as glamour but as velocity—the thrill that burns. Depression is written not as stillness but as suffocation. Yet in between, there’s the quiet miracle of awareness.

And there is love. Love arrives in Ivy’s world not as romance, but as recognition: people who refuse to define her by her disorder, who remind her that she exists beyond chemical imbalance. Love, in this book, is accountability—the friend who says take your meds, the parent who whispers you are more than your mind, the stranger who looks her in the eye when she feels invisible.

Resilience here is not recovery in the clinical sense. It’s survival as rebellion. It’s Ivy saying, I may live inside loops, but I can still choose where to step next.

When readers tell me Déjà Vu helped them feel seen—that it mirrored their manic spirals or the hollow aftermath—I’m reminded why I write these stories. To dismantle stigma. To remind us that living with mental illness is not a flaw in character, but a feat of endurance.

3. Of Laughter & Heartbreak: OCD and the Art of Staying

By the time I wrote Of Laughter & Heartbreak, I wanted to explore a different texture of the mind: the obsessive, ritualized patterns of control that masquerade as safety.

Stevie Matthews is almost sixteen. Her thoughts arrive like barbed wire; her rituals multiply like vines. When the summer’s order collapses, she’s hospitalized—a space she never asked for, but where, for the first time, she meets others who understand the language of compulsion.

OCD, for Stevie, is both prison and prayer. Her rituals aren’t about superstition; they’re about trying to keep the world from shattering. I wrote her story as both confession and communion—a letter to anyone who’s ever mistaken coping for control.

Behind those locked doors, Stevie meets her mirror selves: the anxious boy who collects facts like talismans, the quiet girl who hides notes to her future self, the nurse who knows that healing isn’t linear. Together they build something like family—a map stitched from shared fragments of hope.

This novel, like the others, carries the pulse of first love—not in grand gestures, but in small acts of belief. The hand that steadies hers during a panic spiral. The smile that says you are not too much. The love that grows not in spite of illness, but within it. Because love, at its truest, doesn’t demand wholeness—it meets you in the fragments and stays.

4. The Quiet Revolution of Survival

Each of these novels began with illness, but each ends with something larger: a reclamation of humanity.

In Secret Whispers, Adria learns that her art can hold what her mind cannot.
In Déjà Vu, Ivy redefines truth beyond the lens of mania.
In Of Laughter & Heartbreak, Stevie learns that control is not safety, and surrender is not defeat.

Together, they form a kind of triptych about resilience—the quiet kind that never makes headlines. They remind me that mental illness and first love often share the same vocabulary: vulnerability, risk, surrender, trust. Both require standing on the edge of the unknown and saying yes anyway.

To live with a brain that misfires is to live constantly between worlds—the real and the imagined, the lucid and the lost. Yet within that space, there’s beauty. There’s empathy. There’s art.

These are not stories about being cured. They’re stories about being human.

5. Why I Keep Writing

Sometimes readers ask why I return, again and again, to characters who struggle with their minds. My answer is simple: because I know what it means to stay.

Because the world still whispers that mental illness is weakness.
Because the stories that saved me were the ones that refused to flinch.
Because the young readers who see themselves in Adria, Ivy, and Stevie deserve to know they are not broken—they are becoming.

Writing these books has taught me that resilience isn’t the absence of relapse; it’s the decision to keep loving life anyway. It’s the courage to reach for connection even when your hands shake. It’s the soft defiance of building hope out of symptoms.

And maybe, at the center of it all, it’s first love—the thing that reminds us we’re still capable of wonder.

When I look back on Secret Whispers, Déjà Vu, and Of Laughter & Heartbreak, I see not a trilogy of illness, but a mosaic of endurance. Each girl walks through her own labyrinth and emerges carrying the same small flame: belief.

Belief that we are more than diagnosis.
Belief that love is still possible in the dark.
Belief that the quiet work of staying—of waking up again, and again—is itself a form of grace.

If these stories have a single message, it’s this:
Even when the mind fractures, the heart remembers how to reach for light.

The Quiet Work of Staying: Healing in Fragments

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Before I learned how to write, I learned how to stay. Not the cinematic kind of staying—the triumphant recovery arc, the sudden sunrise after years of darkness—but the quiet, ordinary kind. The kind that happens in fragments: brushing your teeth after days of forgetting due to deep depression, answering one text message, writing a single word. The kind of staying that doesn’t look heroic, but is.

For a long time, I thought healing would feel like a song. Now I know it’s more like static—broken, uneven, but still carrying sound.

Both The Alphabet of Almosts and Some Species of Outsider-ness were born from that static—from the ache of trying to make coherence out of chaos, from the question that threads through all mental-health narratives: how do you keep living when the story doesn’t make sense anymore?

1. Fragments as Language

When I began writing The Alphabet of Almosts, I didn’t set out to create a story about illness. I set out to alphabetize survival—to give shape to the words that hovered between diagnosis and hope.

The book unfolds through small vignettes, each one a lettered fragment—A for Admission, B for Breakthrough, C for Control—and together they build something resembling a life. I was living in that in-between place: between recovery and relapse, clarity and confusion. Each fragment became a way of saying, I’m still here, even if I can’t say it all at once.

There’s something deeply honest about fragments. They don’t pretend to be whole. They allow contradiction, misstep, mess. They remind us that language, like healing, doesn’t have to be linear to be true.

For me, fragmentary writing became both mirror and medicine. When the mind fractures, linearity can feel dishonest. The world arrives in flashes—images, memories, unfinished thoughts. Writing in fragments wasn’t an aesthetic choice; it was survival. It was how I could stay.

2. The Work of Staying

Staying is not glamorous. It doesn’t get book deals or film adaptations. It doesn’t even feel like progress most days. Staying is brushing your hair. It’s making a list you may never finish. It’s finding small reasons not to disappear.

In Some Species of Outsider-ness, I wanted to explore that kind of endurance through two characters—Piper and Slater—whose internal battles are as invisible as they are immense. Piper lives with bipolar disorder, Slater with the lingering paralysis of Guillain-Barré Syndrome. Both are marked by difference in a world that worships sameness.

Their story begins not with love, but with survival: two teens learning that belonging doesn’t mean being fixed, but being seen. The novel’s title comes from the idea that being an outsider is not a condition to be cured—it’s a species to be studied, honored, understood.

The quiet work of staying runs through both their lives. For Piper, it’s managing the cycle of mania and depression without letting either define her. For Slater, it’s learning to move again—physically, emotionally, relationally—after trauma. Neither of them is “better” by the end. But they are still here. And sometimes that’s enough.

Staying is not stagnation; it’s an act of devotion. It’s choosing to keep breathing even when the air feels heavy. It’s sitting in your own skin, even when it doesn’t feel like home.

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3. Healing in Fragments

The culture of wellness often sells us a singular image of healing: bright mornings, clear journaling pages, the triumphant “after.” But true healing—especially after mental illness, grief, or trauma—is far less symmetrical.

Healing happens in fragments. In partial sentences. In moments you forget to count as progress: the laugh you didn’t expect, the walk you took without dread, the meal you actually tasted.

In The Alphabet of Almosts, the narrator describes healing as “collecting the scattered glass of myself and learning not to bleed every time I touch it.” I think of that often. Healing is not about gluing the shards back together into what once was; it’s about learning to live among them, to see beauty even in the breakage.

The Japanese art of kintsugi—mending broken pottery with gold—has become almost cliché in self-help spaces, but there’s a reason it endures. It acknowledges fracture as part of the story. The break becomes the illumination.

That’s what I wanted for Some Species of Outsider-ness too: a kind of emotional kintsugi, where characters mend not by erasing their scars but by tracing them in gold.

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4. The Myth of Wholeness

Wholeness is overrated. I don’t mean that cynically. I mean that wholeness, as it’s often sold to us, is a myth that keeps us ashamed of our incompleteness. It suggests there’s an endpoint to becoming human. But what if our task isn’t to be whole, but to be honest?

Fragments allow for honesty. They let contradiction breathe. You can be healing and hurting, hopeful and hopeless, all at once. You can love your life and still want to leave it some days. You can laugh and cry within the same minute, and both are true.

When readers tell me they saw themselves in The Alphabet of Almosts, it’s rarely because they relate to every word. It’s because they recognized a single line that felt like their own breath. That’s the gift of fragmentation—it leaves room for others to enter.

And maybe that’s what healing really is: not the restoration of self, but the reconnection to others. To community. To language. To the small rituals that keep us tethered to the living.

5. What the Outsiders Teach Us

The title Some Species of Outsider-ness came to me during a sleepless night. I was thinking about how often we label difference as deficiency. How quick the world is to exile those whose rhythms don’t match its pace.

But outsiders—those who live at the edge of ordinary—often see what others cannot. They notice the fissures, the unspoken rules, the small violences of normalcy. They remind us that empathy is not a theory but a practice.

Piper and Slater’s story is, in a sense, a love letter to outsiders: to those who feel too much, too loud, too strange. It’s also a call to stay—to resist disappearance. Their survival is not cinematic. It’s quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean small.

The quiet work of staying is the foundation of every great act of love. Because staying—whether in a body, a relationship, or the world itself—requires belief in something beyond the immediate pain. It’s faith in tomorrow’s breath.

6. The Shape of Hope

Both books taught me that hope doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it looks like a shadow. Sometimes it’s the pause between two heartbeats, the whisper between words. Hope, for me, is found in the act of making: writing, painting, collaging. In taking fragments and saying, You still matter. In creating beauty that refuses to be perfect.

When I wrote The Alphabet of Almosts, I kept a note above my desk that said, Stay in the room. That was my whole goal—not to write a masterpiece, not to heal overnight, but simply to stay. To stay long enough to turn a feeling into a line, a line into a page, a page into something that could keep another person company in their own darkness.

Art doesn’t fix us. It doesn’t erase pain. But it translates it. It gives it a place to rest. It lets others know they’re not alone in the fragments.

7. The Quiet Ending

When people ask me what The Alphabet of Almosts is “about,” I tell them it’s about learning to live inside unfinished sentences. When they ask about Some Species of Outsider-ness, I say it’s about the kind of courage that doesn’t get applause—the courage to stay.

Healing will never be tidy. It will never be final. But maybe that’s its beauty. Maybe the work of being alive is to keep stitching the fragments together, one breath at a time. There’s a line near the end of The Alphabet of Almosts that still feels like a compass to me:

“Maybe we don’t need to be whole. Maybe we just need to stay long enough to see what else becomes possible.”

Fantasy has its dragons. Romance has its declarations. But healing—real, quiet, ordinary healing—has this: the act of staying. So if you find yourself in pieces, remember this: every fragment is proof that you have not disappeared. You are still here. You are still writing. And that, too, is a kind of wholeness.

“Whimsy and Bliss” by Angela Grey

 

Shady Oak Press (2025)
ISBN: 978-1961841468
Reviewed by Stephanie Elizabeth Long for Reader Views (09/2025)

Abigail Whimsy and Lainey Bliss have been best friends since the second grade. Like yin and yang, their opposites somehow fit together like errant puzzle pieces. Whimsy exists in a world of vibrant dreams and imagination, while Lainey is pragmatic and even-keeled, which anchors Abigail. Because nothing good can last forever, the girls have one final summer together before Lainey goes off to a fancy college, leaving Abigail behind.

Before Lainey leaves, Abigail has devised a plan. They will create a map (complete with a detailed legend) and explore all the mysteries of their town—dismantle the “thin” places, using her late grandmother’s journal (chaotic musings) as a guide.

As they delve deeper into the journey, Abigail’s reality becomes skewed, and Lainey’s attempts to keep her friend’s sanity in check become more difficult. The places they visit awaken a humming within Abigail, and the more they add to the map, the louder the hum becomes.

Whimsy and Bliss is a coming-of-age literary masterpiece. Angela Gray’s writing is known for its vivid imagery and deep metaphors, and this novel is no exception. Readers will quickly be immersed in Abigail’s world of wanderlust, where magic and realism become blurred. Beyond that, the character-driven story explores themes of friendship, self-discovery, and bridging the transition from childhood to young adulthood.

Sometimes it can be hard to decipher the difference between imagination and illness. The author has done an excellent job of illustrating Abigail’s unraveling—the whispering of nature, the ebb and flow of the hum, and the excitement turned obsession. With every place Abigail and Lainey traversed, I fell more in tune with Abigail’s frequency, at times questioning what was real and what was fictitious—this is the type of story that makes you see the world differently.

Whimsy and Bliss certainly highlights the plight of mental illness, particularly hypomania. Still, at its core, the novel’s overarching message is one of connection and trust—it’s the impenetrable sisterhood between two young women on the cusp of adulthood. In a world that is often stuck in the me-versus-you mentality, the solidarity between friends is refreshing, teaching us that we don’t have to suffer alone; we can lean on others for support.

For readers who love young adult books about friendship and adventure with a focus on mental health, this literary gem will appeal to you. Angela Gray’s exquisite prose is unmatched, and the multilayered characters are memorable. Abigail and Lainey’s map of thin places will forever hold a special place in my heart.

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Of Laughter & Heartbreak book trailer

This is the summer of locked doors, fragile rituals, and the ghosts that keep count.

I’m Stevie Matthews—almost sixteen, the kind of girl people whisper about. “Bat-shit crazy,” they say. Maybe they’re right. This summer, the order cracks. Obsessive thoughts tighten like barbed wire, rituals multiply, and the only way forward is a hospital stay I never asked for.

Behind those doors, I meet strangers who feel both broken and familiar, each carrying their own secret galaxies of fear and hope. Together, we make a kind of map—messy, jagged, stitched with laughter, unraveling with heartbreak.

This is the story of how I learn that friendship can be born from accident, that healing isn’t neat or pretty, and that sometimes the bravest thing is to stay.

This book is a tender, unflinching portrait of adolescence, OCD, and the fragile alchemy of survival—equal parts bruised and luminous, like a diary written in ink and ghost light.

agoraphobia anxiety bipolar disorder book review chronic mental illness delusions depression grief group therapy hallucinations healing high school how to write a memoir intrusive thoughts Journaling meditation memoir writing tips mental health mental illness mindfulness nutrition OCD psychosis psychotherapy PTSD schizophrenia self-harm social anxiety disorder social withdrawal stigma stress reduction suicide support group work writing writing fiction writing for healing writing for mental health writing for transformation writing suggestions writing therapy YA fiction YA fiction about mental illness YA novel YA novel about mental illness YA romance

When Characters Refuse to Stay Secondary: The Day One Draft Split Into Three Lives

Some stories begin with a single spark. For me, it was a scene in a psych ward where Nico and Zibby from The Cartography of First Love found themselves alongside Abigail Whimsy from Whimsy and Bliss and Aspen James from Shadows We Carry. At first, they shared the same space—four voices pressed together by circumstance, four fragile hearts mapping escape routes in whispers. But as I wrote, each one began to grow beyond the walls I had built, demanding not just a role in a shared narrative but the full breath of their own.

What began as one writing endeavor quickly branched into three novels. I realized I loved each of them too much to let them be shadows in someone else’s story. Nico and Zibby’s romance needed its own compass. Whimsy’s dreamlike adventures deserved to unfurl before her diagnosis became part of her arc. And Aspen’s haunted sketches needed the weight of silence and discovery only their own narrative could hold. By giving them individual pages, I gave them the freedom to tell me who they really were.

The backstories I first drafted in that shared ward became scaffolding—notes, fragments, hints of a life I would later let bloom fully. For Whimsy and Aspen, I wrote them at a point before hospitalization, while their lives were still luminous with magic and not yet marked by diagnosis, though Whimsy’s epilogue eventually folds that thread in. It was the only way to honor their wonder as much as their struggle. For Nico and Zibby, I leaned into the familiar rhythms of the ward itself—the routines, the hush, and the clamor—because their love story was inseparable from that claustrophobic yet strangely tender landscape.

Each character is close to my heart because their beginnings trace back to my own. I was hospitalized repeatedly between the ages of 13 and 15 for an eating disorder. I remember the unlikely friendships, the long hours, and the way we mapped impossible escape plans—California always our imagined salvation. Those memories, both heartrending and inspiring, found new breath through Zibby, Nico, Whimsy, and Aspen. What started as one shared room became three worlds, each carrying a piece of that past and reshaping it into a story.

Regarding Letters to the Author

There’ve been a few letters from young adults that I’ve put on the back burner over the last six months, but the similarities between them don’t seem to decrease, as with the latest of this week. With this latest one, I wanted to strongly encourage anyone going through similar situations to talk to an adult or call a helpline and speak to anyone who will listen. The National Sexual Assault Hotline has confidential (anonymous) help 24/7 and can be reached at 1.800.656.4673 or find them at online.rainn.org.

My story revealed in the above two books only ended after intervention with kindhearted first responders and social workers. There is a way out of that dysfunction, and it might not be the way those involved in your situation may be suggesting, so please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline.

Regarding the recurring theme of forgiveness, I believe I’ve forgiven my stepfather(s) and my mother for choosing him and turning her back on her daughter. As it was pointed out in two of the letters from you readers that I received earlier this year, if I genuinely forgave them, then I should be able to reconnect with my birth family. I’ve heard that before, too. That’s not always the case. I wish all of them the best and that the light of God/Creator shines down on them abundantly. I just don’t have the mental fortitude to put myself in their presence or that environment. Each person in similar situations will be able to handle things better or worse to varying degrees. Just because they tell you to forgive them and get over it doesn’t mean you can or should without outside intervention in the form of the National Sexual Assault Hotline, teachers, therapists, or social workers, especially not if you’re underage. And yes, seventeen is still a minor. Don’t listen to anyone that tells you that you’re an adult and should buck up.

I appreciate the letters and emails I receive about the wide variety of topics and apologize for not addressing this subject matter sooner. Mental fortitude affected my lack of words to tackle the weight of this matter until this most recent connection made it a necessity.

Things I Have Learned from My Mental Illness

It sometimes feels really unfair when coming out of psychosis (the depths of a mental illness). Why me? But in order put spin some positivity regarding it, I’d like to mention some things it has taught me about myself. Here are reasons I’m grateful for certain aspects of living with a mental illness.

  • Being grateful for the little or mundane things
  • Sense of achievement
  • A better sense of self
  • Empathy towards other
  • Learning strength of self

Especially when I’ve come out of psychosis, I’ve noticed things with better clarity. The trees are greener, the flowers more vivid, the laughter of a child or anyone for that matter is so musical. I’m grateful for life. Doing the dishes, laundry, swiffering, or cleaning the windows even doesn’t seem like a chore. I lived through the tough moments and treasure the ability to do them.

I’ve got an incredible sense of achievement for struggling through something terrifying and coming out on the other end. I pick myself up by my bootstraps and dust myself off and continue with my responsibilities with an air of accomplishment. That’s because I did something not everyone can say they muddled through and won for the time being.

I have this enhance sense of self that realizes while I have limitations, I can challenge them. My confidence is earned, and I set the bar for future endeavors higher. It makes me more in tune with my personality.

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My empathy towards others fighting similar battles is more attuned. It’s heartening to learn of others mightily fighting MS or cancer and appreciating their strength to get through each day. I even see the anger or rage in strangers and wonder who or what hurt them so badly that they need to have such a sour demeanor.

While I feel pathetic and weak when I’m coming out of psychosis, I gradually learn how strong and confident I am to tackle the little things to the big things. I’m resilient. Heart palpitations, sweaty hands, trembling body, and nauseousness are merely bumps in the road. I’ve been to the depths of madness and inched my way back. And I’m grateful for the experience to be more attuned to the world around me and have the strength to help others who make mountains out of molehills see the other side of things.

Sleep Quality and Mental Health

The brain basis of a mutual relationship between sleep and mental health is not yet completely understood. But neuroimaging and neurochemistry studies suggest that a good night’s sleep helps foster both mental and emotional resilience, while chronic sleep deprivation sets the stage for negative thinking and emotional vulnerability.

Harvard Medical School
Photo by Ivan Oboleninov on Pexels.com

Sleep hygiene: taking a soothing bath before bedtime, dressing in light loose clothes, getting a massage, reading a book and meditation are only a handful of the things you can do to get better quality sleep. But we must also take note that many mental health problems are associated with sleeping.

Sleep is the golden chain that ties health and our bodies together.

Thomas Dekker

Sleep plays a vital role in brain function and systemic physiology across many body systems. For example, the link between sleep, eating, and weight loss: What you need to know is that when you improve your sleep, your body produces leptin which fills nutritional gaps that have kept you hungry and brought about overeating. According to the Oxford Dictionary, “leptin is a protein produced by fat cells that is a hormone acting mainly in the regulation of appetite and fat storage.”

And eat supper earlier if you plan on consuming carbs along with micronutrient dense options as well. Avoid greasy, spicy, or MSG heavy foods. Also keep your insulin from spiking in the first part of your day by either fasting until lunch or eating a superfood breakfast of eggs, steak, or salmon, some cooked or raw veggies, avocado, coconut, olives, nuts or seeds, along with healthy fat supplements such as omega-3. If you have to have that smoothie, make it a green smoothie with spinach, berries, protein powder, almond butter, cacao powder, cinnamon, unsweetened almond milk and a half a banana or stevia to make it taste better.

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Struggling to give up your smartphone or laptop at night? Here are some ways to ditch screens. First use an alarm clock instead of your phone. The ones with the full shut off dinner are especially helpful. Put that phone in another room so the vibration and notifications are out of earshot. Keep the tv screen out of your bedroom, too, and don’t watch it sooner than 90 minutes prior to sleep. Either have a conversation, meditate, or read a book. Science suggests that you should keep all electronics, including air conditioners, stereos, and laptops at least six feet away from your sleeping self.

True silence is the rest of the mind, and is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.

William Penn

The relationship between caffeine intake, mental health, and sleep quality is well known. If you’re wired on caffeine then you can’t get any quality sleep.. Even drinking it on the drive home from work is close enough for it to affect your sleep. Think: curfew. Don’t allow it to be a vicious cycle of sleep deprived so need caffeine then can’t sleep so reach for coffee and over, again. And caffeine, in addition to affecting your nervous system also causes your adrenal glands to produce 2 anti-sleep hormones: adrenaline and cortisol which along with the spike comes a crash. In addition, headaches, lower energy, and lack of focus are also on that downside of caffeine consumption. So don’t get caught on that hamster wheel and limit caffeine.

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Is the eight hours of sleep rule a myth? Eight hours is optimal for most people (some can handle fewer, but many require more) but the important thing is to get it covering the quality hours of 10am-2am or aim to fall asleep within a few hours of it getting dark outside. That’s when we get the most beneficial hormone secretions, therefore the most rejuvenating effects occur. Sleeping less than eight hours increases your risk of hypertension and heart disease. And maintain that bedtime schedule and don’t stray from it too often to keep your body rhythms in check. Napping during the day for a brief bit is okay but just don’t do it in your bedroom. Always equate that room as your sleep sanctuary. See below.

The best temperature for getting a solid night of sleep is 60°-68°F. According to Wikipedia, thermoregulation is the ability of an organism to keep its body temperature within certain boundaries, even when the surrounding temperature is very different. It can be a physiological challenge should your room temperature be too high. And the warmer you are can lead to a higher state of arousal and therefore a struggle to fall asleep. A warm bath will have your temperature fall accordingly by the time you hit the sheets. Even cooling pads, pillows, and mattresses will aid your internal thermostat. While its best to sleep barefooted, if you have circulation problems, wear a pair of socks.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Now, how to switch your sleep position to maintain the integrity of your spine to end back pain, better regulate heart function and blood pressure, and aid in muscular function and healing. Despite snoring and sleep apnea, back sleeping is the safest for the spine and place a pillow under your knees. Ditch the high pillows that cause neck pain, back pain or worse. And make sure your butt is supported and doesn’t sink into an old worn-out mattress. Wash linens weekly in hot water to cut back on dust mites. If you sleep on your stomach, lift a knee up to your hips and get rid of the pillow. Side sleepers do best with a soft pillow between your knees. Again, don’t use too high a pillow. Perhaps choose an orthopedic pillow instead.

Most of us are already aware of the fact that exercise and weight training can help us feel tired enough at the end of the day, fall asleep faster and stay asleep. Getting sunlight and vitamin D is also beneficial to your body clock. Melatonin, valerian, chamomile, and the types of good sleep nutrients (selenium, tryptophan, potassium, magnesium, probiotics and prebiotics, etc.) that you consume also make a difference.

Lastly, making you bedroom a sleep sanctuary with blackout curtains to keep streetlights, neighbors porch lights, or passing car lights at bay, opening the window a crack or having an air purifier, decorating with air purifying plants, limiting alcohol, using a lavender spritz, citrus-scented essential oils, or even playing nature sounds on a timer at least six feet away from your sleeping self can make a world of difference. If silence is more your thing, wear earplugs. My downfall is not having Fido sleep with you. I think he actually calms me as do my cats. But nevertheless, we’re not supposed to allow it.

The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night’s sleep.

E. Joseph Cossman

These are just a sampling of information I received from attending multiple classes at Pathways Crisis Resource Center in uptown Minneapolis. Those of us that have mental illnesses or are in crisis with a physical illness are triggered by so many things during the day that we need to cherish every moment of peaceful sleep we get to get through a new day with vitality and clarity that a good night’s (longer and more soundly) sleep offers us.

End the day with gratitude. There is someone, somewhere that has less than you.

Zig Ziglar