The Answer

The House

The rusty water made a tap tap tap sound on the stainless steel of the sink. Somehow it totally misses the dirty dishes piled in and around it waiting for the motivation to get them cleaned. Somehow the dripping sink is the only sound in the drafty old house.

I have lived here almost twenty years now. Sometimes it seems like the improvements are outpaced by the decay. Project after project not quite finished because they all blend together.

Living in an old farmhouse while trying to renovate it is no picnic.

The sink drips and I am laying in bed in a sort of detached agony. My mind wanders from the dripping sound to the stress from work this morning. It's noon and I should be asleep. I have to work again tonight. I am a NOC shift CNA. From 6 pm to 6:30 am tomorrow I will be wrangling old folx. But I keep thinking about the rude angry nurse yelling at me for not answering the call lights that are on even though it was fifteen minutes after my shift has ended.

The defeated feeling swells inside me. There is no way to resolve another's blind ignorant anger. Especially when it comes from a superior. Like the authority of her position validates her anger. I feel overcome by hopelessness. While I am emotionally exhausted my mind is still racing. I can not control the driving need to resolve this issue or any issue. I feel hopeless and helpless and I need to sleep.

My bedroom is on the main floor of this two story house. Towels cover the windows to black out the afternoon sunshine. A blowing fan flutters the hanging towels just enough to make the light twitch and pulse in the mostly dark room. As I remind myself that I need to sleep I take a few deep breaths. I tell myself that I can will myself to calm down.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In August there are usually flies and other insects about making all sorts of racket. Still, the house is quiet, aside from the relentless tapping of water in the kitchen.

What is wrong with me?

I have the focus of a goldfish or maybe a caffeinated squirrel. My mind wanders aimlessly. Like a ghost, the shade of some great tragedy, the impression of trauma with no will of its own. The breeze blows my mind around. Every little noise a distraction.

Mindfulness meditation is worth the effort. Hypothetically. I fantasize about the mental mastery of Siddhartha the brahmin's son. The mental mastery of the boy that left to be more. As much as I wish I was that I am more like Siddhartha at the river. Bloated and disgusting. Full of self-loathing and despair.

Last week I had three days off in a row. I should have spent those days working on this old house. Instead, I mostly spent them engulfed in Minecraft.

My routine goes something like this: get up, make coffee, check Facebook, mindlessly scroll, start to feel guilty, need a snack, scroll some more, have a snack, become overwhelmed with guilt, and decide to get off Facebook and do something productive. Then I open Minecraft and get lost in it.

There are days when nothing is distracting enough. I will go from playing Minecraft to Facebook to Netflix, to playing guitar, and I can't do any of them for more than a few minutes. The book that I should be reading sits on the end table glaring at me. I am acutely aware of everything that is wrong with my house, with myself, and I writhe with guilt.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sink. I just want to sleep but the F*cking sink.

My nerves are shot and just as I am thinking I should get up and do something about the sink my dog starts barking and crushes my last nerve. I jump out of bed, probably with more gusto than I do pretty much anything else these days.

“Bruno shush” I plead with my dog as I try to determine the cause of the ruckus.

The postal carrier is here. I wasn't expecting anything, but if they pull into the driveway that means a package.

Scrambling to get some clothes on I get to the door just as the postal carrier does.

The Package

I have to sign for the package. It's not terribly big and there is no return address but it definitely is for me.

Inside I set it on my counter while I look for something to open it with. It must be a scam of some sort, or maybe I ordered something and forgot. The other possibility is some kind of legal documents. I hope not.

Nervously I open the box. Inside is a piece of paper with some very official looking text. “We are writing to let you know that the results are in and we have your diagnosis.” As I am reading it I take a deep breath. I have wanted this moment and I have dreaded this moment. Knowing, if it's even possible, the reason I am like this could be the key to making myself better.

I feel like there are three paths. The first is accepting a label and embodying it. Accepting a label means integrating the label into the identity. The next is refusal, continuing to live in a sort of denial. The final is growth and overcoming. For some things, this is not even an option. You can't bootstrap terminal cancer. Of course, my issue isn't cancer. It's some kind of mental failing.

In this box is my diagnosis. The official determination of what is wrong with me. With it is a little badge that I can choose to wear. The badge is a reminder to me and a notification to anyone that I encounter that there is a reason I am the way that I am.

What a relief that would be! To know exactly why I am the way that I am.

I put the badge next to my phone and wallet and go back to sleep. The excitement of the package is wearing down and I feel content. I feel like I can sleep. I have the answer to me. What a gift. What a relief.

There is no more guilt. No more explaining and apologizing.

I fall asleep and do not dream. When I awake I will be a happier me, a definable me.