I Treat Rest Like a Crime Scene

aka, why doing nothing makes me feel guilty.

The suspect (cough me) did it (again), she… rested. Took a break. Relaxed. It’s been known that she’s a repeat offender, a serial rester. Probable cause? Life.

 

The first offense occurred years ago. She was found lying on her bedroom floor. Staring at the ceiling instead of revising for her finals. Motive unclear. Possibly exhaustion.

 

Fast forward to today. In the latest case, a search warrant has been issued. We found blankets, pillows, a remote. Also a subscription to various streaming services.

 

She has been taken into custody for questioning, where she pleaded guilty to giving in to the temptation of not doing a single thing.

A cross-examination was conducted. It went something like this:
Prosecutor: “Isn’t it true that you had dishes untouched? Laundry unwashed? Plans… canceled?”
Me: “Yes.”
P: “And yet you chose to nap.”
M: “I plead the fifth.”

The question family, friends, and the jury alike ask themselves is, was it premeditated laziness? Or self-slaughter?

 

Why do I feel guilty about resting?

 

Because resting feels like falling behind. Behind an invisible version of myself that is always supposed to be 10 steps ahead.  Have a clean apartment, be on top of my hobbies, be social, get that body toned, think of how to be able to afford a frigging house in this economy. Yada yada.

 

Rest interrupts the illusion of control. When I stop whatever it is I’m doing, I can see EVERY. SINGLE. THING that isn’t done. Ergo, If I’m not moving, I’m regressing.

 

Initially, rest felt indulgent. It meant stepping out of defensive mode, getting rid of my mask, and letting my guard down. Apparently, my nervous system just doesn’t like that.

 

When I’m resting I remember all the unread books, the pounds I haven’t lost, the money I haven’t earned, the friends I haven’t seen, the unlearned skills, the projects I “should” start or should have started years ago. I remember the better
version of me waiting behind the curtain, ready to come out and be like, taaa-da, told ya I am a badass bitch…bitch!

 

I feel guilty about resting because rest becomes confrontation. If I see myself as driven, creative, self-aware, disciplined or whatever, then resting threatens that identity I have created for myself. By resting, I’m temporarily stepping out of this character I built, which can feel destabilizing.

 

I know this sounds somewhat selfish and bad but tbh I don’t really care about betraying actual people when I rest? It’s more that I feel guilty because I think I’m betraying myself and my own potential. Now that shit’s heavy.

 

It’s not that I sit there, binging Netflix and I’m like, “Oh, I should totally go out and see XY!”, I’m actually like, “Wow, I know what I’m capable of, so what the eff am I doing here just lying around?!”

 

When I rest, I have all kinds of thoughts in my head. My brain goes cuckoo scolding me:
You said you wanted to get healthier.
You said you wanted to write more.
You said you wanted to illustrate more.
You said you wanted to spend more quality time with people.
You said you wanted to learn a new language.
You said you wanted to build something.
You said you didn’t want to waste time anymore.

 

Rest feels like I’m breaking a promise to myself. I genuinely think this one hurts me the most. Not disappointing others, but myself. Kid-me would slap me in the face for doing this. For resting, for not doing a single thing. Back then, I could never stay still. I’d teach myself anything I wanted to. Dive deep into my hobbies and interests. I’d do it all, whenever possible, I’d envision a future of older-me and that future was bright. So bright it was blending me.

 

Sometimes it’s like I’m talking to my inner child and I’m like, “So what? I needed that rotting time. Whatcha gonna do about that, kiddo?” But, where and when does it end? There’s no notification that says: “You have now rested enough. Please resume becoming.” I gotta create and do and dare if I wanna have that bright life, right?

 

But then I also feel like this comparison isn’t fair. It’s actually a crime to expect myself to live at the speed of my inner child’s ambition. Kid-me clearly didn’t know:
what burnout feels like,
what a 40-hour week feels like,
what living alone and with partner feels like,
what REAL joints that hurt feel like,
what REAL house chores feel like,
what living with the awareness of the world around you feels like,
how exhausting simply existing can be and
how taking a nap isn’t your enemy.

 

Kid-me was in a bubble and had a vision. Adult-me is in a vortex and has context. Adult-me is tired, kid-me is relentless, and here we are, negotiating peace in the middle.

 

Turns out though, the real felony isn’t napping or whatever it is I do to distract, avoid, and hide myself from. It’s expecting myself to be some relentless productivity monster 24/7. Newsflash, I’m not perfect, neither was the child version of me.

 

It’s okay to breathe. Relax. Rest. Take it easy. Play. Jump. Brain rot. (For a while. Not forever please)

 

Rest isn’t the crime. Thinking rest is a crime? Now that’s the crime. And I’m done prosecuting myself for it over and over again. And you should be too.

 

I rest my case. No further questions, your honor.

 

The jury consisted entirely of past versions of herself. None of them had ever learned how to rest without apologizing.
They took a while but ultimately reached a unanimous decision.
The verdict? Not guilty.