Yesterday, I had a sleep attack before Mass — we were going to church at 5:15pm. I should have taken a nap, but I didn’t want to, so I pushed through it, which was a dumb thing to do! Mass was miserable, I spent all my energy willing myself not to sleep or collapse. The priest spoke about tiredness, about Elijah wanting to sleep under the broom tree. I tried to listen, but I heard the ocean in my left ear, and after the Consecration, I heard an old witch singing a hymn nastily, throaty and out of tune. When I listened harder, annoyed, her voice became angelic, pure as the vibrations of a tuning fork.
Afterwards, my family had planned on seeing a movie, but the thought of going to the theater overwhelmed me. Standing in line for tickets, buying popcorn, getting a seat — I couldn’t do all of that! I was afraid of collapsing, I needed to sleep and I needed to sleep now. We were in the drive-through at Taco Bell, and I wasn’t acting right, and my mom asked if I wanted to be dropped off at home. And there, in the stupid drive-through, waiting for our chalupas or tostadas or whatever, I burst into tears, because I was relieved, because I wasn’t myself, I was a husk left behind like a cicada, and I couldn’t help it.
My little brother, also narcoleptic, put his arms around me and said, “I know.”
“It’s just too much,” he told my parents. “Next time, if we want to go to the movies, we need to have that be our only activity for the day, we can’t be doing other things, too, and we can’t go so late.”
It was 6:30.
Nobody wanted to go to the movies after that, so we all stayed home.