Maybe you can help me.

Updated: Oct 9, 2020

By the time I am fully awake up on any given day it's generally five or six p.m.

About fifteen times a day I need a fifteen minute nap.

What is that?

As a child I was unable to nap. The only time I ever napped at daycare I'd been assigned a cot with its head pushed under a table, so when I woke I cracked my noggin. This whole story already seems to be headed south. Sent to daycare because my mother and father both worked, when she dropped me off I wailed like a gangster was cutting off my pinky fingers nugget by nugget. It broke her heart until the staff assured her once she left I'd calm myself. My recollection is clinging terribly to any adult that would have me. I also recall another girl-child who would lay on the floor, panties at her feet, swinging her legs in the air.

I must be hallucinating. At this daycare I was one of a few who was potty trained, so many other kids whose little asses had to be wiped, I knew I was superior. We also sat at wooden tables where we ate, not allowed to drink our milk until after we'd eaten, where I learned to drink and breath simultaneously, making it appear as if I'd drank my all my milk in one breath.

I beg your pardon, I promised nothing in my self-challenge except to appear here, and so it goes.

Not until I was over thirty-five did I begin napping, that was probably straight up depression, right around the time I began having bouts of insomnia.

Oh god, I think I'm veering into my many mental health issues. I'd like to say I don't know where to begin but I did ask to see a professional counsellor at the age of fifteen.

My family had moved from Ohio to Tennessee and even as a thirteen year old I knew it was backwards. It did not help that I had been schooled by the Vogue and Bazaar magazines my mother brought home from her high school where she taught sewing and cooking. From those pages I learned being skinny, wearing your boyfriends clothes and still looking amazing, a three hundred dollar dinner for two and an Italian designer dress costing over seven hundred dollars was the norm. Surely my parents had gotten off at the wrong exit.

At my new school, Jr. High School, Oy, I still dream about those halls, the lockers, I was so lost having last attended a stupid church school with MAYBE, maybe, a hundred kids…maybe.

The Jr. High had twelve hundred.

To be continued.