My Year of Rest and Relaxation
Two weeks into the pandemic, I suffered an anxiety attack. I deleted slack and other messaging apps from my laptop, yet I still struggled to slow down. The following Friday, I had an intense headache—my body’s final warning for the need for rest. Through my frustration, I wrote in my journal:
04/04/2020:
Today, my body told me in many ways that I needed a break. That it wanted me to stop and forget about the tasks on my to-do list for once. But with all the knowledge I have on mental health, I struggle to do nothing.
When the pandemic started, I had one goal and only one goal: learn how to slow down and take breaks when necessary. I have a tendency to overwork myself and during the pandemic, I was still juggling several responsibilities. Studying, working, developing my manuscript, being a good friend, sister, daughter etc. Around the same time as my panic attack, a friend sent me her copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh. Although I found the protagonist unlikeable, I couldn’t stop thinking about the privilege that afforded her the opportunity to take a year out for relaxing in the hope of figuring out her life.
When I called my sister to lament about my struggle, she shared that she’d been struggling too. That was when I connected the dots to our childhood. We were raised by a mother who couldn’t stand the idea of doing nothing.
My mother grew up in Nigeria with extended family, and rest and relaxation was not a luxury she was afforded. She grew up having to “work for her time” with the family who took her in, having to prove she was worthy of a room in their home. My mother loathes the idea of doing nothing, and it dawned on me that she carried the trauma of the repercussions that came with not being productive. So, she raised us with the same attitude. We had to be up early every weekend even if we didn’t have chores. It took me a long time to understand this was the only way she knew.
In January, when my mother received news of her uncle’s passing, she was so caught up in her grief she sliced through her hand with a knife. She got two weeks off work, and I thought this would definitely make her rest. One week later when I called, she showed me a blouse she’d just finished sewing.
My eyes widened. ‘With your one hand?’
She smiled and threw her hands up in surrender, ‘You know I can’t stand doing nothing.’
I shook my head. I wished I could tell her she no longer had to prove anything to anyone. That she no longer had to account for the use of her time. It saddened me that my mother will never be able to take a proper break. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if she grew up in a different environment. But I’d come to accept that though my mother found rest in doing things, it was not a lifestyle I wanted for myself.
