Rest

Aster Felser

Aster Felser(they/them). After spending the first 27 years of their life either ignoring their presumed neurodivergence or trying their hardest to fight it, Aster is currently coming to terms with their life as a late-diagnosed autistic person with ADHD.

They are working a corporate job during the week and dress up in costumes during the weekend. If only it were the other way around.

Aster is living in Vienna with their partner and a Sammelsurium* of friends. Begrudgingly, there currently aren’t any cats in their living arrangements.

^{*a hodgepodge, a colourful mix}

Rest

The first rays of sun fall through the closed blinds.

My tired eyes blink in the invading light.

The birds’ chirping confirms my despair.

The goddamn alarm will soon start to blare.

Once again I’ve only slept 4 hours.

Once again there hasn’t been enough time at large –

To simply exist; without obligations,

Without fulfilling the desires of others,

I don’t need sleep; I need to recharge.

I’ve come to love the quiet hours at night,

when I feel allowed to be unproductive,

when finally, I don’t have to talk or function,

when resting, nothing but resting, is okay.

But there simply aren’t enough hours in the day.

So what do I do? I sleep less.

because sleep is less important than rest.

I drift in and out of daze and wake,

As I find myself on the bathroom floor.

The water does nothing to wake me up.

I wonder: can I still make the early bus?

I produce a mask out of my collection

And put it on tight as I open the door.

“How can they all do it?” – my mask sits sturdy,

as I exchange greetings on the third floor.

Apparently, the shy girl in class C has been admitted to the Psych Ward.

Only there, in the emergency room,

stripped naked, high, serotonin syndrome;

Did her mom see the scars on her arms and legs gloom.

That’s how far she had to go to catch a break.

I hear, but I do not feel.

I usually don’t; my thoughts are speeding.

What about me?

What do I have to do to make people see my pain?

Why can’t my legs give up in the hallway?

Why can’t I just have a stroke and collapse?

Why can’t the exhaust that’s draining me thin,

Also leave permanent marks on MY skin?

Well, they did not.

I reminisce; It’s been twelve years.

There are no marks. Today I don’t ache.

But I’ve still not felt allowed to take a break.

Why is it harder now, when no one’s holding me back?

I’ve done the tests.

I’ve got the papers.

Multiple medical records stating I’m unwell.

But they don’t help me in being gentler with myself.