My Year of Rest and Relaxation

by Ottessa Moshfegh

Things were happening in New York City—they always are—but none of it affected me. This was the beauty of sleep—reality detached itself and appeared in my mind as casually as a movie or a dream. It was easy to ignore things that didn’t concern me.

I was like a baby being born—the air hurt, the light hurt, the details of the world seemed garish and hostile.

I was both relieved and irritated when Reva showed up, the way you’d feel if someone interrupted you in the middle of suicide. Not that what I was doing was suicide. In fact, it was the opposite of suicide. My hibernation was self-preservational. I thought that it was going to save my life.

“I just can’t talk to her like I used to. I feel so sad. I feel so abandoned. I feel very, very alone.”

I imagine this is what having a sister is like, someone who loves you enough to point out all your flaws.

Initially, I just wanted some downers to drown out my thoughts and judgments, since the constant barrage made it hard not to hate everyone and everything. I thought life would be more tolerable if my brain were slower to condemn the world around me.

I was plagued with misery, anxiety, a wish to escape the prison of my mind and body.

“Sometimes I feel dead,” I told her, “and I hate everybody.

“The moment we start making generalizations, we give up our right to self-govern.