Painsomnia: a form of insomnia caused by chronic pain, where exhaustion meets a body that refuses to rest
What Painsomnia Feels LIKe at Night
3:17 glows from my bedside clock, mocking me in the darkness. It’s a time I’ve come to know intimately, not because I’ve been out living, but because painsomnia, that insomnia caused by chronic pain, keeps me awake when the rest of the world sleeps. I lie in bed, the stillness and quiet around me, yet inside my body, everything feels loud; every ache, every pulse, impossible to ignore. It’s a contradiction I live with nightly; a body desperate for rest, yet unable to find it because of pain, and so I find myself here again, in painsomnia.
"A body desperate for rest, yet unable to find it because of pain." #Painsomnia Share on X
When The World Goes Quiet, My Body Doesn’t
As the night deepens, everything around me grows quieter, and that quiet only seems to amplify what I feel, which is often the hardest part of painsomnia. I don’t know if the pain actually worsens, but it always feels like it does at night. During the day, I can almost pretend I’m fine, my pain blending into the background of everything else.
"The rest of the world sleeps, and I lie awake negotiating with my own body." #Painsomnia Share on XBecause during daylight, there is always something to do: errands to run, emails to answer, dishes to wash. Conversations fill the gaps. There are places to be, books to read, and television to switch on and lose myself in. Distractions are everywhere, and for a while, they soften the edges of what I feel. But at night, when all of that falls away, there’s nothing left to buffer it.
"Distractions are everywhere, and for a while, they soften the edges of what I feel. But at night, when all of that falls away, there’s nothing left to buffer it." Share on X
There’s no background noise from the world beyond my window, no text messages arriving, no sound beyond my bedroom at all. There is only silence, and in that silence, my pain expands, growing louder. I can almost feel it stretching itself out, claiming space, demanding my full attention. Without anything to distract me, even the smallest ache becomes impossible to ignore.
Time Moves Differently When You Can’t Sleep
I glance back at the clock, watching the minutes change slowly. Time stretches in a way it never does during the day. That is the strange rhythm of painsomnia. Each minute slowly drags itself forward while I lie there, fully aware of every second I’m still awake. Ten minutes feels like an hour. An hour feels like a small lifetime. I close my eyes, turn onto my side, adjust the pillows once more, hoping this time I might actually find sleep. For a moment, it almost feels possible. But then it slips away again. A dull ache creeps back in, then sharpens, pulling me back into full awareness of my body. I start over again: shifting, adjusting, trying to outmanoeuvre pain that refuses to yield.
"Ten minutes feels like an hour. An hour feels like a small lifetime." #Painsomnia Share on X
The Loneliness of Painsomnia
It’s in these quiet moments that I feel the loneliness of painsomnia begin to settle in. The rest of the world is asleep, and instead, I lie wide awake, feeling like the only one still up. The house is still, peaceful, and as I lie, I become aware of every small sound; the faint creak of the pipes, the rain tapping on my bedroom window. They’re the only signs of life, the only company I have. I feel a strange kind of isolation, exhausted yet awake, alone in a body that refuses to settle.
"I feel a strange kind of isolation, exhausted yet awake, alone in a body that refuses to settle." Share on XIt makes me more aware of everything. I find myself listening for any kind of sound, just to remind myself that the world is still there beyond my room.
I look for anything to take my mind elsewhere
Sometimes, I reach for my phone, one of the small distractions I use when pain and painsomnia keep sleep out of reach. I fall into the familiar habit of doomscrolling, letting one thing blur into the next just to pass the time, to fill the deafening silence. I try watching something, anything quiet enough not to disturb anyone else in the house, the brightness turned down, the volume barely there. It never seems to help, not in any lasting way, but it gives my mind somewhere else to go for a little while; something other than the pain that won’t leave me alone.
There’s only so much I can do
Eventually, even that stops working. In frustration, I start the cycle again: shifting, adjusting, trying to find a position that hurts less. By this point, painsomnia has usually been with me for hours, and I’ve usually taken as much pain medication as I can safely take. I know how long I need to wait before I can take anything else, and I find myself weighing up whether it’s worth taking it now or saving it for later, in case the pain worsens. But even then, I’m not sure it will make a difference.
Even then, my pain medication isn’t a magical switch that shuts the pain off. In my life, medication merely lowers the volume. It often turns a scream into a moan. Sometimes, it takes the edge off, but often it doesn’t. There’s no real way of knowing, and that uncertainty becomes part of the night too; another thing to sit with, another thing to wait out.
The night doesn’t end when the day begins
Eventually, I run out of things to try. I have nothing left but to lie there and wait it out. Sleep feels out of reach, something I can’t quite get to, no matter how tired I am. Instead, the night stretches ahead of me, not as a time for sleep, but as something to endure: hour by hour, minute by minute.
"The night stretches ahead of me, not as a time for sleep, but as something to endure: hour by hour, minute by minute." #Painsomnia Share on XHow Painsomnia Follows Me into the Day
Yet the exhaustion doesn’t just disappear with the appearance of daylight. It lingers, settling into every facet of my day. It settles into conversations, into small tasks, into movements that should feel simple, but instead feel heavy and cumbersome. Morning arrives whether I’ve slept or not, and painsomnia leaves its mark either way. And my routine starts all over again. I wake up. Then I take my medication. I prepare myself for the day ahead and finish the morning chores. Still, the exhaustion from the night lingers. I carry the weight of it through the rest of the day. That weight goes beyond ordinary tiredness.
This is what painsomnia really is. It’s not just a bad night’s sleep or the occasional restless evening. It’s a relentless cycle: night after night of trying, adjusting, waiting, enduring, followed by days spent carrying its aftermath. Much of it happens behind closed doors, in the quiet hours when the rest of the world is asleep, unnoticed and often unspoken. Living with painsomnia means repeating this cycle night after night. And I know that when night comes again, I’ll be back there. If you’re there too, you’re not the only one still awake.
