Shit TAB Say: Part Two

Yesterday, someone I know was angry at his significant other because she had let him sleep in. He felt like half the day was gone! All that time, wasted! He slept only two hours later than he would have liked, but two hours was too much for him.

Welcome to my world, I said.

Sleep is vital for our health–moreso, for differently abled people with conditions like, say, epilepsy. Sleep deprivation can cause of number of problems: lack of energy, lack of focus, slower reaction time, and the longer we go without sleep, the worse the effects become. For epileptics, the time we’re able to go without sleep is shortened, the effects come on much quicker. There is also an additional consequence of sleep deprivation for epileptics: seizures, partials and grand mals.

When I refrain from setting an alarm, it is pretty much guaranteed that I will sleep much later than I want. If I’ve incurred a sleep debt, alarms wouldn’t keep me from continuing to sleep, either. If my alarm goes off before my body is rested, I cannot get out of bed. I’m too exhausted to move.

That’s a lot of “time wasted.” That’s a lot of days “half gone.”

Much less time to do what I want and need to do.

Thoughtless comments.

It’s funny. TAB have much more time to consider the perspectives and experiences of others. And yet. It occurs to me that TAB are wasting a lot more time than I am.

Tales of Epilepsy: Internalized Ableism

Today, when my body finally dragged itself from the dregs of sleep, the first action it took was to grab my phone and check the time. Three-thirty, it said. Panic exploded across my mind. What?! I exclaimed to myself. How can I have slept so late? The day’s half-over! Then, the mantra began. Lazy. Lazy. Lazy. I’d completely forgotten that twelve hours previous, as I made ready for bed, I’d deliberately not set an alarm, so that my body could get as much rest as it needed. It was tired. I was tired. My epilepsy was taking advantage of it. Around midnight, I jerked. It was a partial seizure. It was a reminder that my epilepsy was still there, that my body was tired, and I’d forgotten in the midst of a long conversation with a friend to take my nightly dose. It had been a long week.

Lazy. Lazy. Lazy. I heard the mocking voices of everyone I knew in that mantra.

Why do I do this? I’m not supposed to sleep late, remember? I’m supposed to be a dutiful broken body and pretend like I’m not broken for the benefit of others–so they’ll not worry, so they can pretend I’m just like them.

I was tired, so I slept. But I never fully recover because as soon as I wake from that wonderful, restful sleep, I beat myself up for daring to take care of myself. It’s either beat myself up for it, or allow the rest of the world to do it for me, and fight against that, too.

Only in an ableist world is it acceptable to struggle to simply take care of my body’s needs. Only in a world where there is only one acceptable state of being for a body to be: “normal” is it considered “lazy” to take as much time as I need to ensure my body’s health.

Do I do it to myself? Sure. After years and years of dozens or hundreds of family, friends, acquaintances, teachers, employers, peers, and the random solicitor telling me it so, it’s difficult to forget. Every day is a battle.