A year ago, the words “Public Radio International” filled me with dread, the anguished cries… A year ago, the words “Public Radio International” filled me with dread, the anguished cries of Tori Amos soothed me, and more than 50 rolls of toilet paper filled my closet — and all because of a miserable case of insomnia.

I lay in bed and closed my eyes, but some deep-seated malfunction in the machinery of my mind prevented my thoughts from slowing down.

I attempted to lull myself to sleep by downloading placid public radio shows, such as “This American Life.” Each ended with an announcer uttering, “PRI: Public Radio International.” I grew to dread these words. They meant that another hour had passed and I was still awake.

Each day, I walked the streets, red-eyed and haggard, Tori Amos blasting in my headphones. After a sleepless night, cheerful music was annoying and sad songs about lost love or social injustice did not ease the pain reverberating through my head. Only songs with lyrics like, “My scream got lost in a paper cup / You think there’s a heaven / Where some screams have gone” were comforting.

On particularly bad days, I killed time grocery shopping, an activity requiring little mental energy. I always bought toilet paper because you can never have too much toilet paper. Stacks of Charmin stood in my closet, convincing visitors that I had either a plan to defile my least favorite professor’s yard or a new fondness for Taco Bell.

To cure my insomnia, my dad suggested exercise and my mom recommended warm milk, but I said, “screw that folksy crap” and hit Rite Aid.

I started taking Unisom, an over-the-counter sleeping pill. Initially, it conked me out, but I soon built up a tolerance. One Unisom no longer put me to sleep, so I took two, then three, then four. One night, after taking 12 Unisoms and only feeling a little dizzy, I knew I needed another remedy.

I turned to holistic medicine, particularly the herbal supplement Alluna. The active ingredient of Alluna is the hops plant, which is a relative of the cannabis plant — aka marijuana.

Alluna didn’t help me sleep, but it did make stupid crap funny. The box said to take two Alluna pills an hour before bedtime, and I usually spent that hour giggling at Nickelodeon cartoons.

Next, I asked my doctor about Ambien, because I just couldn’t resist a television commercial featuring a moonlit forest, a basket of sleeping puppies and a list of stomach-turning side effects.

Ambien, one the strongest sleeping pills allowed by law, made me realize the intensity of my insomnia. My train of thought could not be stopped; Ambien could only push it off-track, into a blurry realm of Dali-esque images and repressed childhood memories. (I think Ambien helped me recall my circumcision.) Taking Ambien was interesting, but nightmarish hallucinations do not equal sleep, so I stopped taking it.

I tried valerian root, Sleepinal, passionflower, Nyquil and melatonin, but no one remedy consistently worked.

Then, it hit me: If my insomnia were too fierce for one type of pill to conquer, then I should take several all at once and simply overpower my consciousness. I emptied out my medicine cabinet and fixed myself a sleeping-pill kamikaze.

Eleven hours later, I picked myself up from the bathroom floor, wiped a layer of drool off my chin, and smiled. I had found the solution to my sleep problem.

Every sleep aid has some slogan promising a safe, close-to-natural night’s rest. Unisom is “safe, proven, effective.” Alluna “promotes a natural sleep pattern.” Ambien “works with a natural brain chemical.”

This is fine for most people, but my sleep cycle is so dysfunctional that a single, good-natured chemical can’t simply budge it back into regularity. I need to be flat-out knocked unconscious. So, every night, I swallow eight to 12 various pills and turn into an unmovable glob of human flesh.

But I awake from my nightly, nine-hour comas well-rested and refreshed. I haven’t downloaded a PRI show in weeks. I now prefer David Bowie to Tori Amos. Last week, I stumbled into my kitchen, pants around my ankles, to search for a napkin because I have finally run out of toilet paper. That is a happiness worth whatever toll my rampant abuse of sleeping pills eventually takes on me.

Because of Nick Keppler’s sleeping pill misuse, fellow columnist Matt Wein says he has six months to live. E-mail your own estimate to [email protected].