I taped my mouth: to breathe
I taped my mouth: to breathe. I have slept badly for a long time, at least that is what my partner tells me. I choke, hold my breath, gasp for air and snore myself silly. It is not something I have felt to challenge, that is, until recently. My recovery from vertigo (BPPV) has been slow and dispiriting, as my mind continues to be riddle with residual dizziness – an unsteadiness purported to be present as my body readjusts to the solid plane – as well as regular headaches, onset during periods of concentration that typify a normal working routine. It has affected my reading and writing ability too. Instead I have retreated, recollecting and recomposing my thoughts, my balance, direction.
Without the rhythmic buoyancy of reading, and a diminished appetite for writing, I have been stuck in the metre of life stripped back. The duration and intensities that the mundane induces appears both peripheral to my thought, while absolutely fundamental. This all the more pertinent no doubt residing in a land far out of my comfort zone – and linguistic range. The quotidian aspect of life is both more difficult and important; elevated in a way.
So A suggested I tape my mouth. A small strip across my lips to encourage my sleeping self to breathe through the nose, and so bring a halt to the strange goings-on that my mouth likes to perform whilst all around is still. We were worried low oxygen levels at night could be prolonging my dizziness. I tried it for a couple nights and it seemed to do the trick right from the off. In parallel we had spoken to the neurologist about sleep apnoea. I was to undergo a sleep test (polysomnigraph) administered at home. I was hooked up to a dozen or so sensors across my head, my throat, my torso, straps running across my body along with a bulky power bank attached. My brain activity, snoring, oxygen levels, leg movement and breathing patterns were monitored across the night. I had a net stocking placed over my head to keep it all in place and sent home to sleep. This night was difficult and uncomfortable; I felt hemmed in and constricted, itchy and restless.
The next week the results were in: success. I had a great sleep according to the neurologist, undergoing multiple cycles of REM, no snoring and only a couple outlier instances of apnoea. My oxygen levels were good. The only conclusion to draw was that the tape use had, within the course of a few attempts, already adjusted my breathing. Hope sprung anew. I was feeling better too.
This drawn-out ailment, where the world doesn’t quite bend to your cognitive supposition, has tested my patience, will, endurance. Walking and hiking has found me in my convalescence. We went up to the mountains – clan in tow – where the air cut through me; a release. Visions of the sublime, coiled in all its romanticist splendour, beguiled me, amidst the craggy spurs and verdant ridges, birds of prey soaring at the precipice. There was a sense of going into yourself, through and out, the inner repository of sense. Rehabilitating the self.