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I don’t sleep. I mean, of course I sleep, but I don’t go to that place where dreams seem real and waking is close to impossible. That place where the body is limp like death, but with instinct and reaction.

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The specialist orders a sleep study because I fall asleep everywhere but in bed. I fall asleep in meetings at work, in coffee shops, on the phone. I fall asleep in the waiting room at his office, writing emails, on the toilet. The sleep specialist suspects narcolepsy. I look up the symptoms. I am a classic case.
 

“But why?” I ask.

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“We don’t know about these things. Sleep is a complicated process. What we’ll do is get you on some medication to try to regulate your system after the sleep study confirms narcolepsy.”

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I have more questions, but don’t bother attempting further conversation with this doctor. He is condescending and I don’t recognize the name of his medical school, written on the diploma he has hanging behind his desk chair, crowning him like a halo. I would feel better if he had gone to UCLA or Johns Hopkins, but he’s with my HMO. I will see him once after the sleep study and he will prescribe meds and my regular doctor, who is smart and went to a medical school I’ve heard of, will refill the prescriptions, so I don’t bother.

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The study comes back. I am not narcoleptic. There is no diagnosis, only a symptom: insomnia. Ruled out: narcolepsy, sleep apnea, restless leg syndrome. I don’t have nightmares or sleep paralysis. I don’t dream. I live in a wavy world of brain banging, lid drooping, head jerking.

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I read about sleep deprivation. It is used by terrorists as a form of torture. But I am not sleep deprived. I am not prevented from sleeping. I start to think I am a terrorist.

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When he sends me off with my non-diagnosis, the sleep doctor with the unfamiliar medical degree tells me what he thinks is a funny anecdote. He says they told him in medical school that when doctors hear hoof beats, they should look for horses, not zebras. He tells me I am a zebra. I consider telling him that my mystery diagnosis is the zebra in the metaphor; I am too tired.

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I fall asleep mid-conversation with my boss. It is not the first time and she is losing patience. My doctor refers me to a psychiatrist and a neurologist. She refers me to warm baths and decaffeinated beverages and meditation. She asks if I believe in prayer. My head jerks. It looks like I am nodding yes.

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At the end of the week, my boss calls me into her office. I am awake and have put in a productive day’s work. She fires me. I tell her I have narcolepsy. She tells me it’s too late. She’s given me many warnings and chances to come forward about a disability. It is documented with Human Resources. I dig nails into thighs through my skirt until she is finished talking.

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I pack my things and walk to my car. I recline my seat, open the window a crack, and pull a blanket around me. As I lose consciousness, I hear the cars leaving the parking lot. If I could open my eyes, I would look for horses.