Esther McCarthy: We’re all in a club none of us wanted to join — a prison more than a club

We have a whole secret nocturnal society going on. Picture: iStock

“I am lucky if I get three to four hours,” writes one.

“I don’t think I can remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep,” shares another.

“I used to think my sleep was bad when the kids were small and in and out of our bed. But at least I’d fall straight back if I woke up in the middle of the night. Now once I’m awake, there’s nothing I can do to drift off again. I just lie there with a million things flying through my brain. Then I start worrying about not sleeping. It’s a vicious cycle. I think I just have to accept that it’s part and parcel of being a woman in my 40s,” says another.

“I’ve tried EVERYTHING believe me,” writes another in a DM. “HRT, relaxation techniques, exercising more, I cut out all caffeine, even my beloved night time cup of tea. Nothing worked.”

These are just some of the many messages I get when I reached out to other women in Whatsapp groups and on social media about the subject of women and our sleep woes.

I am blown away by all the responses, the generous sharing, the kind suggestions, the sound advice. Hey, we zombie gals gotta stick together, am I right? We’re the ones doing the online grocery shop at 3am, answering emails at 3.30am, and rounding it off with a sneaky Wordle at 4am. We have a whole secret nocturnal society going on. We’re all in a club none of us wanted to join, a prison more than a club, really, but we’re willing to put the hand out, to try to find that elusive key to escape.

And if one gets out, they want the others to find the escape hole behind the poster too.

I love that about women. We’re good at sharing, aren’t we? At wanting to help, at coming up with solutions.

One lady tells me her technique for nodding off. She walks around her local shopping centre in her head and names two items for every letter of the alphabet. “If I get to Z,” she says, “I know sleep is elusive. Sometimes, thankfully I do nod off somewhere around L, M, N, O, P.”

(Hmm...Melons, Munchies, Nachos, Nduja, Oranges, Oat Milk, Peanuts aaaaaad Potatoes!!!)

Another lady sent a DM on Instagram and I could FEEL the fury.

“Not only is my body spreading out in all directions, I have rage appearing out of nowhere and am suddenly being blessed with an ability to remember nothing... and the sleep is gone to shit! 3am seems to be the new 7am.”

Esther McCarthy: I am blown away by all the responses, the generous sharing, the kind suggestions, the sound advice. Picture: Emily Quinn

People also share what has worked for them. One says a combination of menopause supplements and drinks, magnesium, and cutting out alcohol has helped. Another writes that things got so bad, she was diagnosed with sleep apnea last year, and now uses a CPAP machine.

Another lady was just back from hosting her first sleep retreat in Spain with Ener-Chi Balance, with ten women learning about letting go and finding sleep.

I’m also fascinated by one lady’s solution to not wanting to wake up her partner with her restlessness by employing the Scandinavian sleep method — they use two separate duvets.

Some swear by yoga Nidra, others admit sleeping pills were the only thing that eventually worked, but it’s not a long term solution. But what is?

There seems to be no easy fix here. We are legion, and we are exhausted. 

But one thing that comes up again and again in the messages and the conversations is giving up alcohol. Or at least cutting it way back.

Our bodies just don’t process it the same way anymore, it seems. How bloody unfair is that?

One lady sums it up: “Ultimately, the choice is wine or a good night’s sleep. The two can’t co-exist.”

But I’m nothing if not idiotically persistent. I decide to give it one more try, and attempt to trick my body into enjoying the Friday night, end-of-week glass (or two).

It’s mind over matter, right?

So there I am, giving full Braveheart last Friday to the boys, as we settle down to watch a movie, me with a small glass of wine, them with popcorn and the last miserable straggles of Christmas chocolate (I’d hid a Toblerone I’d forgotten about, we demolished it like animals before the title music was over).

You may take our estrogen, you may take our bone density, you may take our libido, but you will never take our freedom ...to guzzle Beaujolais!

I defiantly pop the cork, and after three sips, I call it. Time of death for enjoying wine: 8.30pm. We did all we could, doctor. My face burns with the heat of a thousand suns, as the rosacea kicks in, and I press fast forward in my head, imaging myself lying awake, red wine-cracked lips, bladder niggling, skin itching, brain speeding, and I pour the rest of the glass down the sink. But menopause is also called The Change, and change is a good thing right?

Maybe I just need to figure out a positive spin on this. And I will, I promise, just as soon as I get a good night’s sleep.