A Narcolepsy Postcard
UNLOAD THE BRICKS FROM YOUR CHEST AND BUILD A BENCH INSTEAD.
SOMETIMES WHEN PEOPLE COMPLAIN, "I'M EXHAUSTED," A FLARE OF ANGER WOULD RISE UP IN ME. A SORT OF TERRITORIALITY OVER THE DIAGNOSIS, A NEED TO SCREAM, "MY EXHAUSTION IS BIGGER THAN YOUR EXHAUSTION." THAT, "I CAN'T HELP MINE, BUT YOU COULD!" AND THEN I BLINK AND REALIZE I'M TALKING TO A NIGHT SHIFT NURSE IN AN AISLE AT WALMART, OR A MAN ON THE BUS WITH THREE KIDS IN TOW. WHEN I'M STARING CAPITALISM IN THE FACE, IT SCREAMS MORE LIKE "YOUR EXHAUSTION IS MY EXHAUSTION." MINE HAS A PATHOLOGIZED NAME, YOURS HAS POLITICAL BACKING AN SMELLS LIKE STRUCTURAL VIOLENCE. GIVE ME A HIT OF YOUR OREXIN TO THE SPINE AND I'LL HUG YOU AND YOUR KID, SEND $10 OVER VENMO, OR SHOW UP TO YOUR UNION MEETING. LET ME TUCK YOU IN UNDER THE COVERS AND CRY TOGETHER. I WAS WELL-VERSED IN SLEEP, IN LONGING FOR SLEEP, IN RESENTING SLEEP. BUT THEOLOGIAN TRICIA HERSEY TAUGHT ME EVERYTHING I KNOW SO FAR ABOUT REST. DOING NOTHING IS SOMETIMES WHAT'S NEEDED TO DO ANYTHING AT ALL. PUT YOUR FEET UP. UNLOAD THE BRICKS FROM YOUR CHEST AND BUILD A BENCH INSTEAD.