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I don’t like sleeping. There, I’ve said it. Not because I want to be edgy or mysterious, but because lying in bed feels like surrender. Hours pass while I could be writing, reading, thinking, planning, producing something. I sleep for five hours these days. I wake up at 5 a.m. and dive straight into work. My body doesn’t like it. It complains. My eyelids feel heavy. My mind feels foggy. I end up taking naps, sneaky little ones in between tasks, and still feel like I didn’t rest enough.

I am bipolar, so sleep isn’t just rest. Missing it isn’t just grogginess. My moods, my energy, my ability to function - all of it teeters when I sleep too little. And the people around me - they notice. My family, my friends - they become hyperaware. They watch for sparks of hypomania, for the small things that signal imbalance. Missing sleep in my life is political. Social. Personal. Health is one layer. Perception is another.

But biology doesn’t care about politics. Sleep is not optional. It’s a complex series of cycles: NREM, REM. One repairs the body, strengthens the immune system, and consolidates memory. The other sorts of emotions connect experiences and stabilize mood. Deprive yourself, and you break these systems. Short-term: irritability, slow thinking, clumsiness, forgetfulness. Long-term: diabetes, heart disease, depression, and neurodegeneration. And for someone like me, bipolar, sleep deprivation isn’t just dangerous - it can trigger full-blown episodes.

Still, society romanticizes sleeplessness. Hustle culture calls it dedication. “Sleep is for the weak,” they say. Entrepreneurs posting at 2 a.m., students cramming all night, artists finishing drafts in the middle of the night. Productivity becomes a performance. The more you sacrifice, the more morally superior you feel. And I have felt that. I have stayed up because hours wasted are hours not achieved. But the irony is cruel. The less I sleep, the less effective I become. The work piles up. The mistakes multiply. Productivity, the very thing we chase, becomes elusive.

There is also a social and political angle. Sleep inequality exists. Not everyone can choose to sleep well. Low-income workers, night-shift laborers, single parents - some of us literally cannot afford enough sleep. And yet, the culture glorifying sleeplessness rewards those who can skip sleep voluntarily. It’s a form of classism in plain sight: sleeplessness as aspirational, as a badge of merit. Meanwhile, the “choice” is only available to those with safety, stability, and resources.

Even with all this knowledge, I push myself. I work 8-9 hours a day now. I study. I write. I read. I prepare. I feel alive when I am awake and doing things. When I sleep, I feel like time is stolen. Like life itself is slipping through the sheets. But then my body punishes me. Naps. Brain fog. Dizziness. Headaches. And guilt. Guilt for “wasting” hours lying in bed. And slowly, I realize: balance is necessary. Productivity without rest is hollow. Doing without pause is not sustainable.

The research is clear. Chronic sleep deprivation impairs memory, slows reaction times, clouds judgment, and destabilizes emotions. Even five or six hours a night, over weeks, erodes cognitive performance. The mind becomes less creative, less resilient. Sleep debt is like compound interest; it builds quietly and brutally. And yet, the culture around me tells me to ignore it. To produce. To sacrifice. To feel proud of exhaustion.

Bipolar disorder makes it more complicated. I can go several days with little sleep, feeling grounded, yet others see sparks of mania before I do. Sleep, in my life, is both a tool and a threat. Too much can feel paralyzing; too little can feel liberating yet dangerous. There is no perfect middle. There is no cheat code. There is only the push and pull between biological necessity and human desire.

I have learned to see sleep differently. Not as an enemy stealing hours, but as a force that restores me, stabilizes me, makes me capable of meaningful work. It is resistance, preservation, a quiet ally. Without it, even the most disciplined mind fails. Even the overachiever collapses.

Yet I continue. Because something is intoxicating about being awake while the world sleeps. The silence. The control. The uninterrupted stretches of time. A part of me thrives on it. And part of me hates it. I feel the cost creeping in. The fog. The irritability. The exhaustion. But I push anyway. Because sleep feels like giving in. And giving in has never been easy for me.

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