Why Is It Still So Hard to Rest?

The "Protestant work ethic" to "activist overwork" pipeline is so real.

One of the weirdest and most universal experiences of being a chronically ill / disabled person is how often we convince ourselves that we're actually just fine, thank you very much. That there's nothing wrong with us at all. The pattern is almost always the same: We do all the things we're supposed to do to manage our conditions, we take our medications, we stay inside our energy envelopes, we nap, we set and reinforce our boundaries, the weather's just right, luck is on our side, and suddenly we get a couple of days in row where we feel really great. 

Rather than thinking: "All the wise things I've been doing plus some blessings from the universe have combined to give me these glorious days! I'll simply enjoy them with a heart full of gratitude and keep managing my conditions in the ways that have led to this great good fortune!" We think: "Oh wow, I wasn't even sick at all! I've been fooling myself! I'm as healthy as an ox!" And then! And then! We go completely ham and clean our houses from top to bottom, go on hours-long trips to do errands we usually space out across a month, throw in a bunch of exercise, socialize from dusk until dawn, heck — maybe even have a beer because a robust and vigorous ox in the prime of her life definitely can drink one beer! 

A little over a month ago I was diagnosed as prediabetic. Just barely. My A1C is .1 over what it's meant to be. It's not surprising; nearly everyone I know from my first wave Long Covid cohort has been similarly diagnosed. But still: scary! I started seeing several specialists to help me figure out a very specific diet and a very specific exercise plan. Both of those things, for me, hinge on NOT OVERDOING IT. On doing JUST ENOUGH.

The new shopping and cooking regimen adds a lot to my plate, so I've had to compensate by setting aside other things. Asking my wife to take over some of the household tasks I would normally do, cutting down on my trips up and down the stairs in my house, no impromptu adventures out into the wild to go to the bookstore or the park. And the exercise is even more tricky because if I overdo my heart rate for even just ten minutes, I'm in big trouble. So I have to ride my stationary bike for an exact amount of time at an exact resistance and the exact right RPMs and an exact heart rate. Those things leave absolutely no wiggle room in my sleep schedule. I need to be in bed, lights out by 11pm. No more reading until the sun comes up. No more binging TV into the wee hours. Since my prediabetes diagnosis, my energy has become an even more precious commodity. 

Things have been going well. Really, really, really well. I have been scientifically vigilant and it has been paying off in major, noticeable ways. Things have been going so well, in fact, that last week I decided that my problem these last four years of having Long Covid is that I haven't been doing enough, actually. That I've been under-doing it.

So on Friday, I did my stationary bike twice as long as my doctor said to do it, at a wide open pace like I was on the Tour de France. On Saturday, I did an outside hang with my friends without planning for any extra rest; and, in fact, I decided I'd also do a big grocery store run and some extensive meal prep in a hot kitchen. On Sunday, I took my buns outside and did every single springtime yard chore. Weed-eating? Check. Shrub-trimming? Check. Prune the rose bushes? Check. Remove the yard debris, spread some mulch, clean the sidewalks? Check check check! On Monday, I got back on my stationary bike and did another marathon ride.  

Guess what happened to me next? You'll never guess. Okay, I'll tell you: I crashed so hard I could hardly hold up my head. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't cook even a bowl of oatmeal. I couldn't stand up in the shower. I spent three days feeling like one of those boneless floppy air tube guys they put out in front of the car wash. Only without a blower attached to me. Like a floppy air guy with no air. 

I don't know what causes this kind of delusion. I don't know if it's wishful thinking, or muscle memory, or the constant gaslighting we face from healthcare professionals and friends and family, that nagging guilt that never fully goes away because we can't do what everyone else wants us to do. I do know — I know — that I have a complex set of intersecting disorders that require me to horde my energy like a dragon with some shiny treasures. I can't even tell you how many doctors have affirmed this for me. How many medical professionals have told me, repeatedly, that resting is the most important thing I can ever do, that overdoing it could cause permanent damage to my brain and body. The pleading, resigned, dejected look on my wife's face when she knows I'm about to cause myself to crash, and nothing she says can stop me. I know all that. Yet! Three days in a row of feeling awesome, and I'm ready to dismiss all of it and dive headfirst into a slab of concrete! 

I've spent a lot of time over the past year thinking about all the ways I digested the idea that running myself into the ground, wearing myself down to the bone, going and going and going until I had absolutely nothing left to give was a good and noble way to live. I've been shocked to fully realize how much of it was all just a big trick. The supervisor who insisted I needed to work late and then laughed cruelly right in my face when I asked why, because I was getting all of my work done during our regular work hours; they were the one who couldn't properly manage their time. The boss who insisted everyone else come in on the weekend because it made them jealous to see me and my coworkers on social media, out at brunch or the pool or at the movies with friends, when they were working because they didn't have any friends. That constant refrain on activist social media about how I SEE YOU NOT DOING ENOUGH. The lie I kept telling myself that being overworked meant I was worthy. All the times I sidestepped my own feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, anxiety, and sadness by staying busy with "important" business. The feeling of superiority I got for being a martyr to the grind.  

The "Protestant work ethic" to "activist overwork" pipeline is so real. 

I think maybe at the heart of it, the real reason I resisted resting for so long, is that I didn't think I was worthy of care. I didn't think my own brain and body deserved to rest. Somewhere, deep inside me, that must still be at least a little bit true because my impulse upon feeling good for more than one day is to go berserk BEING PRODUCTIVE.

But I haven't given up learning. I'm going to see some friends today for a set amount of time. I did all my grocery shopping and food prep for the day in advance, all my prediabetes meals, so I can just pop them in the oven when I'm ready to eat. As soon as I send this newsletter, I'm going to take a nap to prepare to be social. And I've been rereading Tricia Hersey's Rest Is Resistance to get my mind right again. I've been reading this out loud, specifically, every morning, like a prayer: 

"We are not resting to recharge and rejuvenate so we can be prepared to give more output to capitalism. What we have internalized as productivity has been informed by a capitalist, ableist, patriarchal system. Our drive and obsession to always be in a state of 'productivity' leads us to the path of exhaustion, guilt, and shame. We falsely believe we are not doing enough and that we must always be guiding our lives toward more labor. The distinction that must be repeated as many times as necessary is this: We are not resting to be productive. We are resting simply because it is our divine right to do so." 

Contrary to basically every lesson I’ve internalized in my entire life, resting doesn’t make us lazy. Resting makes us whole.