As always, doctors do not know why I am in pain, so they ask about my stress levels. One time, I laughed. “No, I do not have much opportunity for rest,” I replied, “My life is very hard. But there is something wrong on a physiological level, too. I know it is all connected. Stress management alone isn’t going to make me better.” As always, they cannot help me. I do not appear to be at risk of death, only severely damaged quality of life.
So I return again to what is within the scope of possibility. I do not know why my nerve endings are frayed, but as a side effect I can feel every micro-moment of stress that I would have otherwise believed is ordinary; when a car nearly hits me or someone leaves a rude remark on my Facebook page or my seven-year-old leaps into the air and narrowly misses catching his skull on the corner of the cabinet, it feels as if hot sand is pouring through my veins. It feels like burning, itching, just beneath my skin. It feels like fire and needles, cold mist, misfiring circuits.
Postherpetic neuralgia is the least of my worries. So I ask the plant medicine instead of medical doctors, and the plant medicine tells me, “It’s the inflammation.” And I say, “What is causing the inflammation?” And the plant medicine replies: “It’s the stress.”
God dammit.
There is no denying it. I haven’t slept in years. After the baby’s second hospitalization, which was before we lost our home, which was after the first unplanned pregnancy, which was before the hurricane, which was after the heartbreak, which was before the financial crisis, which was after the abusive relationships, which was before the vasopasms, which was after the wedding, which was before the divorce, I think I may have known rest?
Now, I can’t even say I am “re-learning” rest, because I know what my nervous system does when the lights are too bright, the dryer is too loud, or my blood sugar nearly hits the floor. I have only known rest in moments. And those moments were preceded and succeeded by the shock of moving through this world in a woman’s body.
But sure. Okay. I can see how this may become an underlying cause of chronic illness.
I am too tired to explain why it is impossible to rest in my position. I am too tired to explain circumstance and systemic limitations. I am too tired to write this sentence.
Because it is impossible, I will rest regardless of all those plates hitting the floor, which I will clean up after. It is Winter Solstice, and I spent my morning cleaning someone else’s house. I dust furniture that costs more money than I make in a month. I am grateful for the Christmas bonus. I spent last night cleaning my own house. None of the bags are packed. The car hasn’t been unloaded, before it can be reloaded, before it can be unloaded, before it can be reloaded. I need a shower, but I can’t get off the couch. Is this rest?
What is rest?
There was a moment, two or three months ago, when I had sex for the first time in years. We cuddled all night, and the next morning I paid for the best two-hour massage of my life. My lover grabbed my feet and my massage therapist pressed into my armpit, then something moved in my stomach. That afternoon, I was able to experience myself as a person whose bodily needs were met.
I was charismatic. I was friendly. I was beautiful, even. I could suddenly solve every problem in my life with ease.
But sex and two-hour massages are hard to come by, so usually I just breathe.
I find the tension in my tongue. I watch the wind in the trees. I get high and listen to Alan Watts as I fall into a weak sleep. (I am pretty sure Watts must have been a womanizer in addition to a spiritual opportunist, even though I’ve never looked it up. All these guys are the same. I know that now, because I am sick.)
What is restful? How do we rest easy, in this world where we are assaulted by every convenience and defeated by every inconvenience? Conveniently, it grows cold. And I want to eat, read, stay in. I force myself to attend Meetup events, hoping to make new friends. Is this rest? Why does it require so much driving?
Every time I drive I feel close to death. This is not rest.
Hundreds of people tell me to take a bubble bath. Millions of people enchant the words “self care” in my direction. Somewhere, thousands of new mothers avow they will never cut their hair. (They will.)
There is no rest for the weary. I will rest easy.
Because it is impossible, I will rest regardless of all those plates hitting the floor, which I will clean up after.- amen