![]() I try to compensate for a lack of silliness in life. It’s a bit like going for a run after days of physical inactivity, hoping that this somehow constitutes as a healthy ‘lifestyle’. I unconsciously embody rigidity, only to later compensate through dancing or drawing. I fall into the trap of ‘seriousness’ – as a student, as an employee and as a person walking down the street. However, the search for and facilitation of play is not always easy (or welcomed). Netflix has a specific category of recommendations for people like me – it’s called ‘Reluctant Adults’. I still get ‘weak in the knees’ during flirting and drop my head when I eat a KitKat. Close friends know that I still fall to the ground over silly SnapChat filters, unexpected sightings of wild animals and spontaneous giggle fits. Every time I feel the slackening of my jaw, I am reminded of the privilege of pure, uninhibited joy (even if I can’t express it). I have since sought to revive play in my life. There was of course still joy, and at times laughter – but nothing that resembled to the uninhibited and liberating play I had known before. This shift from play to no-play was in fact a gradual transition that involved adopting new norms and modes of social interaction. I don’t recall any formal agreement to stop playing, nor can I pinpoint any final instances of play. ![]() Did I stop because I was afraid of cataplexy? It’s safe to say that I wasn’t the only one – everyone stopped playing. I stopped ‘playing pretend’, and I no longer played ‘it’ in the playground. At some point, I stopped going over to a friend’s house ‘to play’. Parallel to the decline in dramatic episodes of cataplexy, I experienced a decline in ‘playful activities’. There may well be some truth to this, but I can’t help but wonder if something else changed. Some have interpreted this as my ‘conscious retreat from social situations where I might experience laughter’. They became subtle and intimate, only triggered to their full-blown capacity by a few close friends. Upon experiencing weakness in my knees, I learned how to ‘escort’ my body to the floor or to a seated position.Īt some point during my teens, however, I started having fewer episodes of cataplexy. Eventually, my friends learned how to help me, and cataplexy became a part of my personal way of playing. Upon experiencing weakness in my knees, I learned how to ‘escort’ my body to the floor or to a seated position. I never seriously injured myself (or anyone else), and for a long time I considered it to simply be a bizarre, inconvenient ‘quirk’, much like my constant napping. My earliest memories of cataplexy are associated with playing as a child. Rather, what interests me here is within the realm where cataplexy and non-cataplexy co-exist – the realm of play. My personal experience of cataplexy does not speak for everyone, nor does it summarize the condition, its effects and impact. Cataplexy can be embarrassing, inconvenient and frightening. Cataplexy is one of several symptoms of a serious chronic neurological condition called Narcolepsy type 1. In that instance, I gave in to the urge, but my instinct is usually to fight it (just like the farts and the napping) – and for good reason. I could hear my friends (a group of recent graduates from the Rising Voices of Narcolepsy program) laughing along with me. Blood rushing through my paralyzed body, I sat silently, fighting the limpness whilst indulging in joy. My body slumped into my chair, my chin dropped to my chest and my eyelids fluttered. It wasn’t a fart, nor was it sleep – it was cataplexy. When Julie Flygare shared this brilliant and hilarious comparison at the dinner table, an overwhelming urge hit me. “So I read this thing about how needing to nap is a lot like needing to fart…” ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |