Fiction is My Nightcap

The Case for Bedtime Stories and Mental Health Boundaries

Snuggled into my com­forter, my part­ner a ver­i­ta­ble heat­ing pad at my back, I prop my Kindle up with what is prob­a­bly the most bougie item I own—a page turn­er. I have dili­gent­ly hunt­ed for the lit­tle click­er piece that I con­sis­tent­ly lose once I fall asleep every night, and my screen is adjust­ed so I can see it from what I like to call “too exhaust­ed to both­er” pose: hands T‑rex-ed under the cov­er with the click­er in one hand, blan­ket cov­er­ing my mouth (but not my nose), feet grasshop­per-ing, and my eyes already heavy but com­mit­ted to ten min­utes before bed. 

“Alright, Tiff,” I tell myself. “ten min­utes before you let those eyes droop.” 

Then some­thing inter­est­ing hap­pens. The Libby book I’ve opened to is clear­ly one meant to—ick—teach me some­thing. On pur­pose. My eyes get heav­ier imme­di­ate­ly, and yet iron­i­cal­ly, I don’t sleep, but I begin to think about what many peo­ple, I would argue women espe­cial­ly, think as they lie their heads down at night: “I could’ve done more today.” 

I begin to ques­tion why I don’t already know and why I’m not already apply­ing what­ev­er self-help or world-chang­ing or com­mu­ni­ty-build­ing or resis­tance-form­ing ideas I’m read­ing about. What can I do about that tomor­row? How do I start? 

This, in essence, is my case for read­ing fic­tion as a night­cap, espe­cial­ly if you don’t have the time. If your days are full, your heart is heavy, your mind is rac­ing, your (or at least, my) nev­er-end­ing could-have-done-more-ness on full alert every night, why end your day with infor­ma­tion about what else you could be doing? Even some of the most mem­o­rable reads I’ve digest­ed recent­ly have been deep, inspir­ing, and, because of that, have been heavy and dif­fi­cult to relax into before bed. 

Fiction, on the oth­er hand? Fiction dis­tracts. It sub­verts, and tricks, and cajoles, and some­times out­right hijacks the mind away from those cir­cu­lar thoughts and that dread. It’s hard to be wor­ried about my to-do list when the god of the moun­tain wants to com­mune, after all! (Revelator, Daryl Gregory). Reading fic­tion, for me, serves as a blur of lines between the real­i­ty I am com­ing from (con­scious­ness) and the some­times imag­i­na­tive and sur­re­al place I’m head­ed for (sleep). 

Of course, who the eff am I to tell you what you should read and when? Certainly, there is no right or wrong when read­ing, espe­cial­ly read­ing things that can be uncom­fort­able, chal­leng­ing, or stretch our views of the world. If you are a per­son in this world who active­ly reads, on pur­pose, lit­er­al­ly any­thing, please con­tin­ue to do that! 

For me, I’ve had to make myself promis­es, as so often hap­pens when I’m trick­ing myself into things that are good for me. Can I read non­fic­tion, breach pre­con­ceived notions, shoot for the self-help stars, learn about new and old con­cepts, and become enlight­ened? Yes—in the morn­ings. Or on com­mutes. Sitting at the soc­cer field. On lunch. In the rare times when insom­nia creeps in, and I decide get­ting up to work is bet­ter than find­ing that 47^th imag­i­nary face in the creas­es of the ceil­ing paint. 

Fiction, on the sub­ject of my own made-up, self-inflict­ed rules, can also be enjoyed at any oth­er time, if I’m real­ly into it. But I have com­mit­ted to myself that it is bed­time, pri­mar­i­ly that I will devote myself to the joy of read­ing for plea­sure, for the dis­trac­tion, for the plot. So, if you’ll excuse me — where is my page turner?