I have a confession to make. I have a boundary problem.

Boundaries are important to psychologists. Good boundaries allow us to have healthy relationships, to be able to say “no” to new responsibilities when our plates are full (or to say “no” to seconds when our plates are empty for that matter), and to be able to support clients through terrible experiences without being overwhelmed ourselves. Boundaries tell us where we end and someone else starts. They allow us to make good decisions for ourselves.

So I was disturbed the other night when I realized I have terrible boundaries in one area of my life.

Picture this: 3:30am. Husband and I are tucked into bed. Guapo the dog is snoring and twitching at our feet. It’s quiet and it’s dark save for the white light of the iPad, glowing in my feverish hands. I made a costly mistake. I started reading a new novel at 10pm. Now I can’t stop. I watch the minutes slip away as I “turn” the pages. Half-hour chunks of time disappear like kibble in Guapo’s food bowl. What am I doing? I have to work today! At 6:30am the alarm will go off and I’ll be as grumpy as a DMV employee all day. But I can’t stop. I have to know what happens next.

Husband pops one bleary blue eye open and glares at the clock. “It’s 3:30 in the morning.”

“I know,” I whisper. Shame washes through me. Is a book going to grab me by the throat like this? Will I allow a bunch of words to control me? Yes. Yes, I will.

Finally, at 4am, the idea of making it through the day on 2.5 hours of sleep brings me to my knees. I close out the Kindle app and literally throw the iPad away from me. Forgot about dog. Dog jumps up, wondering what furry four-legged foe just thumped him in the back. I go to sleep, but not before acknowledging the power of the printed (or electronic) word that forced me to pull an all-nighter. That destroyed my careful boundaries.

Being a conscientious psychologist, I’ve pondered my problem. What is it about some books that makes me throw all good judgment out the window and keep reading into the dark hours of the night? I think it’s because it’s a luxury, or maybe a vice. A small vice that doesn’t really hurt anyone except me (and believe me, by 3:30pm I was hurting quite a lot. One grande Starbucks chai later, and I was hurting and jittery. Super.)

I finished the novel that evening. Then I collapsed. I can only allow myself this lapse in boundaries every once in a while, or else I can’t function. But the next time I find myself unable to stop reading at 2 … 3 … 4am, I think I’ll just settle in to enjoy the ride and accept the consequences.

Apologies in advance for my crankiness.