The Olympic Sport of Autistic Sleep (Gold Medal in Ritual, Last Place in Actual Rest)

Let me start by saying this:
Sleep is hard.

Not in the “I stayed up binge-watching murder documentaries and now I’m tired” kind of way. No. I mean hard in the way that requires precision, ritual, climate control, silence, darkness, and very specific fabric.

Because I am autistic, and sleep is not just sleep.
It’s a battle.
It’s a process.
It’s a highly choreographed performance art piece starring me, a very specific fuzzy blanket, and a 10-year-old pillow.

Let’s talk requirements.

To even begin considering falling asleep, the following conditions must be met:

✅ The sheets must be silky.
✅ The blanket must be soft and fuzzy.
✅ NOTHING can touch my feet. Not even the blanket. Especially not the blanket.
✅ The room must be pitch dark—I'm talking "cave where light fears to tread."
✅ I must be wearing earplugs, because I will hear the fridge humming on the main floor and start contemplating mortality instead of sleeping.
✅ My pillow must be the pillow—the one that has lovingly molded to the shape of my head like a memory foam soulmate. No, I can’t replace it.
✅ The room must be exactly the right temperature. Too warm and I become a rage-filled furnace. Too cold and I spiral into an existential crisis involving socks.

The Ritual: Left Side, Right Side, Repeat

I don’t just lie down and fall asleep. No, no.
I rotate.
Like a stressed-out rotisserie chicken.

First, I lay on my left side.

Then I shift to the right.

Then I flip the pillow to the cool side, return to the left.

Then I shift to my back, realize I hate that, and panic-flip to fetal position.

This continues until the stars align or I pass out from sheer exhaustion. Whichever comes first.

Then, just when the physical conditions are finally perfect, my brain decides it’s time to talk.

“Hey… remember that one time in third grade when you got your foot caught in the trampoline in gym class?”
“No? Cool, let’s relive it frame by frame anyway.”

My brain then continues its greatest hits album of sensory flashbacks, random thoughts like “I wonder what colour you would get if you combined turquoise and orange”, and an ever-expanding to-do list for tomorrow.

Dreams: The Midnight Acid Trip Nobody Asked For

And if I do fall asleep?
Congratulations, I’ve now unlocked Stage 2: The Weirdest Dreams You’ve Never Asked For.

My dreams aren’t relaxing. They’re not your standard “flying” or “showing up late to math class.” No, my dreams are sensory-crammed, logic-defying feature-length films with zero plot cohesion and a soundscape designed by someone on hallucinogens.

Examples include:

Riding a rollercoaster made of lasagna while being chased by a giant sentient fork.

Arguing with a wizard at IKEA about whether my grandmother is actually a toaster.

Getting lost in a dimension made entirely of shampoo texture. Just that weird slippery feeling. Everywhere.

When I wake up, it’s not with a peaceful sigh—it’s with a full-body jolt and the feeling that I’ve lived twelve alternate lives in one night.

While other people seem to just lie down, close their eyes, and drift off like it’s easy, I’m over here running a nightly gauntlet of sensory management, existential dread, temperature regulation, and dream-world chaos.

In conclusion:

I love sleep.
I crave sleep.
But sleep and I are in a toxic on-again, off-again relationship where I put in all the effort and it ghosts me at 2:00 a.m.

If you ever see me yawning and slightly dissociating mid-conversation, just know it’s because last night, a whisper of sock thread touched my toe and I had to start the whole ritual over.