By Laurie Sandell
Glamour
At the peak of my sleep crisis, I was an Olympic endurance insomniac, often awake for 48 hours straight. During those endless stretches of time, I watched TV, called friends in California, whimpered, wept, beat my pillow, flipped through tabloids and surfed the Internet. I didn’t write, though I am a writer — I wasn’t capable of forming thoughts, much less sentences. So by the time I turned to the sleep aid Ambien for relief, I was desperate — and primed to become an addict.