I am a very tired person. In 2016, when I was a sophomore in college, my primary care physician told me I was iron deficient. A few months afterward, I wrote a song called “Iron,” of which the chorus was: Summer check-up during which I came to learn / That my body’s messed up because I need more i-i-ron. My musical endeavors are beside the point. The point, as I originally stated, is that I am a very tired person, and my iron deficiency might be to blame.
Consequently, when my alarm chimes each morning, it feels like I am stuck in quicksand, attempting to roll over while my body is suctioned to the goop. (Please note: there is no actual goop in my bed; the goop is a metaphor.) While my body rotates, I decide whether or not to direct my index finger toward the “Stop” button or its northern neighbor, the “Snooze” button. More often than not, I aim for the “Snooze” button, because I know myself well enough that, should I press “Stop,” I will fall back asleep and wake up at one in the afternoon.
My eternal exhaustion (new band name?) results from more than my lack of iron. I am depressed—not in a the-Starbucks-barista-forgot-the-whipped-cream-in-my-peppermint-mocha way, but in a clinical way. A classic symptom of depression is a lack of motivation, so alarms like “Marimba,” or even “Piano Riff,” do not translate to “Good morning, sunshine! It’s time to have a peppy, productive day!”
Setting my alarm to a song I like does not help. Sure, it’s better than the iPhone’s generic “Alarm” sound (even the sound of pubescent yodeling is better than that), but, shockingly, the intro to Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” does not propel me out of bed.
Often I set an alarm even when I have nothing to wake up for.
Nothing to wake up for. It sounds like it belongs in a suicide note.
If I’m being honest with myself, there is always something I should wake up for—breakfast, housework, writing—but one of my therapists once told me to stop should-ing myself. To stop should-ing the bed.
Or maybe I set an alarm so I don’t feel like I wasted the day by sleeping in, even if I don’t end up doing anything that day. Sleeping in is associated with slackers who mooch off their parents instead of finding their own direction. I am not like that; I mooch off my parents and try to find my own direction.
Waking up before eleven, even when I have “nothing to wake up for,” sets an expectation for myself that I may need when I join the Real World. I imagine having a job for which I’ll have to wake up around eight:
I drive to work, blasting One Direction and questioning whether or not I’m making the right career choices, before parking in a lot labelled “Employee Parking Only.” I greet Mark, the handsome twenty-something behind the front desk, and then I scan my work ID. Upon sitting at my cubicle, I deliver a sigh. “Back at it again,” I say—maybe to my desk neighbor Diane, maybe to no one at all. Before I log in to my desktop, I make sure to reset my alarm for the next morning.
Or maybe I do none of these things.
Maybe it’s eight o’clock, and I’m asleep. Dried saliva glues my cheek to the pillow. My alarm is set for eleven, but I don’t have to go into work until four in the afternoon. Today I have chosen “Backstreet’s Back” for my alarm, and, once eleven o’clock comes, I let it play for twenty seconds. I like the song, but the accompanying vibration makes my jaw clench, so I roll over and press “Snooze.”
In my half-awake state, I mentally scroll through my to-do list—things I might do today.
I might write an essay. I might apply for schools. I might actually cook a meal instead of living off protein shakes and frozen pizzas.
When I get out of bed, I do so with fervor. This is it, I tell myself. This is the last time my body will be horizontal for the rest of the day. I trudge downstairs, hair voluminous with knots. On autopilot, my hands reach for the Nutribullet and a protein packet.
Eventually, I trudge back up the stairs—to put on real clothes, I tell myself. I fall back onto the mattress. I set a new alarm for noon. I have to be harder on myself, I think. I have to hold myself accountable for my laziness. I don’t choose a new song; I set it to “Alarm.”
