The many prescription medications the narrator takes to facilitate her hibernation project represent the fine line between self-care and self-indulgence or self-destruction. Once the narrator formulates her plan to transform herself and improve her life by sleeping as much as possible, she enlists the help of a dubious psychiatrist, Dr. Tuttle, to prescribe her medications that will help her sleep. Dr. Tuttle has a practically non-existent allegiance to ethical standards in medicine, and she eagerly prescribes the narrator all manner of potentially dangerous drugs, not bothering to verify the narrator’s increasingly fantastical claims of insomnia. In so doing, she enables the narrator’s self-destructive hibernation project, during which she spends most of the year asleep or in a drug-induced, semi-conscious haze.
In theory, the narrator’s project resembles a healthy approach to recognizing the ways in which one’s life is lacking and then taking steps to improve one’s habits and perspectives in order to feel more satisfied and at peace with oneself: she will take it easy and take the medications a medical professional has prescribed her, and in time, she’ll feel rejuvenated enough to live the life she wants for herself. In practice, however, the pills only enable the narrator to remain self-indulgent and to engage in self-destructive behavior while she pretends to improve her health and practice self-care. While in drug-induced blackouts, she makes ill-advised phone calls to her ex-boyfriend, Trevor, and she eats copious amounts of junk food. She sleeps until her muscles atrophy, and she ensures that she is never sober enough to consciously reflect on the inner struggles that are actually causing her such pain and dissatisfaction with her life. In short, the drugs enable her to engage in self-indulgent, avoidant behavior and prevent her from practicing the acts of self-care that would actually help her to work through the issues she is supposedly interested in solving.
Pills Quotes in My Year of Rest and Relaxation
“I’m not a junkie or something,” I said defensively. “I’m taking some time off. This is my year of rest and relaxation.”
“Lucky you,” Reva said. “I wouldn’t mind taking time off from work to loaf around, watch movies, and snooze all day, but I’m not complaining. I just don’t have that luxury.”
“But you could have the medication instead,” I argued. “And spare your jaw from all that chewing.” I didn’t really care about Reva’s jaw.
Each time I awoke, I scribbled down whatever I could remember. Later I copied the dreams over in crazier-looking handwriting on a yellow legal pad, adding terrifying details, to hand in to Dr. Tuttle in July. My hope was that she’d think I needed more sedation.
My father was always sick in my dreams, sunken eyes, greasy smudges on the thick lenses of his glasses. Once, he was my anesthesiologist. I was getting breast implants. He put his hand out a little hesitantly for me to shake, as though he wasn’t sure who I was or if we’d met before. I lay down on the steel gurney. Those dreams with him were the most upsetting. I’d wake up in a panic, take a few more Rozerem or whatever, and go back to sleep.
“People like your mother,” Dr. Tuttle replied, shaking her head, “give psychotropic medication a bad reputation.”
The carefree tranquility of sleep gave way to a startling subliminal rebellion—I began to do things while I was unconscious.
“I’m overwhelmed, I guess. It’s been hard, but also sort of beautiful in this sad and peaceful way. You know what she said before she died? She said, ‘Don’t worry so much trying to be everybody’s favorite. Just go have fun.’ That really hit me, ‘everybody’s favorite.’ Because it’s true. I do feel the pressure to be like that. Do you think I’m like that? I guess I just never felt good enough. This is probably healthy for me, to have to face life now, you know, on my own.
I thought about whatever subliminal impulse had put me on the train to Farmingdale. Seeing Reva in full-blown Reva mode both delighted and disgusted me. Her repression, her transparent denial, her futile attempts to tap into the pain with me in the car, it all satisfied me somehow. Reva scratched at an itch that, on my own, I couldn’t reach. Watching her take what was deep and real and painful and ruin it by expressing it with such trite precision gave me reason to think Reva was an idiot, and therefore I could discount her pain, and with it, mine. Reva was like the pills I took. They turned everything, even hatred, even love, into fluff I could bat away. And that was exactly what I wanted—my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly through a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.
I took off the white fur and the bustier and the fishnets and went to the bathroom to run the hot water in the shower. My toenails were painted lilac, my previously flaky calloused soles now smooth and soft. I used the toilet and watched a vein throb in my thigh. What had I done? Spent a spa day then gone out clubbing? It seemed preposterous. Had Reva convinced me to go “enjoy myself” or something just as idiotic? I peed, and when I wiped myself, it was slick. I had recently been aroused, it seemed. Who had aroused me? I remembered nothing. A wave of nausea made me lurch over and regurgitate an acrid globule of phlegm, which I spat into the sink. From the sandy feel of my mouth, I was expecting to see granules of dirt or the grit of a crushed pill speckling my saliva. Instead, it was pink glitter.