This Story Might Save Your Life(6)
Next thing I know, Vanessa is shaking my shoulders, screaming and crying, and the boat is ashore, hugging a squat Canary Island palm.
Well, technically, the tree took the brunt of the damage. But that was all my parents and I needed to metaphorically wake up and get proper help.
Two sleep studies later, we had a diagnosis. In hindsight, this should have been fairly obvious. Without proper treatment, my particular brand of narcolepsy is rather severe, and I was not treating it properly. My symptoms were a blazing marquee:
NOW PLAYING
NARCOLEPSY!
STARRING JOY MOORE
Armed with a name for my disorder, I was finally able to seek focused medical care. But much to my disappointment, there was no tidy before/after transformation.
No one wants to be treated like a sick person, and navigating the world of disability is uniquely complicated when your disability is invisible. My friends couldn’t understand, especially in those early days, why I couldn’t suck down a caffeinated drink and feel better. Teachers thought I was lazy. Dramatic. A few made snide comments: “I guess my class isn’t entertaining enough to keep you awake?”
Fifth period became nap time in the nurse’s office, which charged my battery the minimum amount necessary to finish classes, after which I went home and immediately napped again. On average, I needed three daily naps, occasionally four, plus dozens of five-to-ten-second micro-naps in between. On top of which we were testing out different combinations of stimulants, cognition-enhancing medications, nighttime sleep aids (because believe it or not, nighttime sleep is not always restful with narcolepsy), and SSRIs for the resulting anxiety and depression that eventually set in.
Not quite how I expected to spend my prime years of high school, to say the least.
After barely graduating, I decided to put off college for a while. It wasn’t like I had any idea what I wanted to do with my life anyway. But with too much time and not enough distractions, I began to despair. Veruca Salt took her leave and Eeyore moseyed in to take her place. Noting my significant regression, my therapist suggested I take an art class to get my head out of my ass. I chose an online graphic design course because it could be done at my leisure with a computer I already owned. I figured it might help me get into college whenever I was ready to take that next step.
I’m going to brag now. I’m a good graphic designer. And my god, was it a relief to discover this. I threw myself into those early projects. I knew nothing about typography or branding, but I had an eye for space and texture, along with a newly acquired patience for learning. After finishing my first course, I took a second, and then a third, and then professors began passing my name along to small businesses in need of basic graphic design. These jobs led to larger freelance jobs, and all of a sudden, I was making a living. A humble living, but a living nonetheless. All on my own time, without a college degree. It was a freedom akin to getting one’s driver’s license, I imagined. I hadn’t yet gotten mine.
My parents didn’t want me to move out, but I was resolute. The SSRIs had pulled me out of my coffin, the stimulants had thinned the molasses, and I was following a rigid sleep schedule. Which helped. Which I intended to keep. I found a modest one-bedroom apartment nearby and begged them to cosign. “You should be relieved that you’re driving me nuts,” I told them. “It means I’m feeling better.”
They gave in. And let me tell you, friends, that first taste of independence is a mighty powerful drug. Chili cheese Fritos for dinner? Done. Dancing in my underwear? Ear-splitting singalongs to the Wicked soundtrack? Done and done. I even tried my hand at online dating, most of which were one-offs when I dropped the big N. Narcolepsy is not, as it turns out, a sexy reason to mention your bed.
The next few years were boring by pretty much anyone’s standards. I took more classes, worked my tail off, and built my client base. By the time I was twenty-five, I’d saved some money and was ready for a change.
Enter Benny.
Benny Abbott
Day One
From the doorway, Mallory and I stare at the jagged shards blanketing every surface of Joy and Xander’s bathroom—the floor, the clawfoot tub, both sinks, even the toilet seat. Neither Joy nor Xander are answering their phones.
“We should call the cops, right?” I ask. “Should we call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
I toss her a harsh look, which she immediately dismisses.
“It was probably just the wind. Same thing that happened upstairs.” Mallory crunches over the glass in her Birks to jiggle the window frame on the far wall. “Look. No brace. And the latch is loose.” She jiggles that too.
I find it hard to believe such an explosive shattering was weather related, but she has a point. There are no other signs of intrusion. Nothing is missing, as far as we can tell. Nothing else is broken.
I try Joy again. Again, straight to voicemail. “Where are you?” I say, knowing she never listens to her messages. “We’re here, and you’re not here, and there’s a lot of broken glass, so just … please call us back.”
Breathing slowly through my nose, I strive to take Mallory’s lead. No reason to panic yet. I remind myself that Joy and Xander are only thirty minutes late, the winds were indeed strong last night, strong enough to yank a 150-foot tree out of the ground, and Joy has every reason to ignore my texts.