“Not just pork!” I call as he turns, heading toward his car. “Beef. Poultry. Fish …”
It didn’t go as planned. I hate when things play out one way in my head and another way in reality. One of my many special gifts involves either giving zero shits about something or completely obsessing with a laser fixation on whatever catches my attention. I’m easily distracted one minute, and the next the world could be ending, but if I have something to say to someone, the world will just have to end.
Yes, by thirty I have a solid grip on my personality traits even if I don’t get why some of them seem so odd to everyone else. It’s the difference between empathy and sympathy—imagining and experiencing. Under certain non-threatening situations, I can look at myself with a small percent of objectivity, but it’s not a superpower that changes my thoughts or actions.
I should have texted him. Instead, he’s driving off while I have ten more emoji faces to express and a half dozen high fives.
* * *
During the last hour of work, everything intensifies to a degree I haven’t experienced in years. All of my coping mechanisms for dealing with sensory overload fail me. Flickering lights in the hallways, excessive chattering, Dr. Overton’s bag of spring rolls sending bile up my throat, the contour of my new shoes rubbing just below my ankle, a fraction off from where all of my other shoes hit my legs, just … everything.
“How was work?” Mom asks from the kitchen, the second I walk in the door.
I make no effort to respond. Instead, I march into my bedroom and lock the door. Floor to ceiling bookshelves cover the wall opposite my bed. I’m a voracious reader, but I also have rows and stacks of journals.
My sanity lives in those journals. I sort my life out in words on pages. Sometimes just one word on each page for big problems. After my uncle died, I used four journals to describe the funeral, each page with one word. Four hundred and thirty-one words later, I had my feelings neatly sorted into those four journals. My script size matches the size of my problems. So my journals aren’t just a compilation of words with meaning. The way they are arranged on a page says as much as the actual words themselves.
I grab a brand-new journal (I purchase them in bulk and in various colors to match my mood) and deal with everything swimming in my mind, rescuing each thought one at a time until the waters calm into a manageable ebb and flow.
Spring rolls should be banned from the hospital.
LED lights on dimmers should be used in every work place.
Shoe designers don’t need to redesign a shoe if the original design works.
Humans talk too much.
Layne Gibson didn’t have a concussion, therefore, Dr. Hawkins didn’t need to worry about me leaving her with Gary the security guard.
Spaghetti should be the most simplistic dish in the culinary world—one box of pasta, one jar of non-chunky, mild marinara sauce. Why did Dr. Hawkins insist on making it so difficult?
Ask Dr. Hawkins if he grew up on a farm. Who says, “I won’t feed you the hog?”
I will eat before I go to dinner at his house. After all, I don’t need to eat to get to know Roman.
Problem solved.
“Bad day?” Mom asks as I emerge from my room, trekking a straight line to the front door to go take my walk.
“Yes. No. Just … ugh!” I slam the door behind me.
No more late-afternoon honking horns and bumper-to-bumper traffic. No chattering coworkers. No antiseptic smells. No flashing monitors. Just … quiet.
“Woof!”
Except for Gemma. I open my eyes. “Hey, Gem.” I bend down and give my chocolate Labradoodle some love before making my way to the three acres of fenced-in field with a pond at the far end. Orville and Wilbur race out of their shed when they see me open the gate. I press music on my watch and click on my Max Richter playlist.
Space.
Solitude.
Air.
Setting sun.
Sky.
As I walk the parameter of the fence with my dog and two emus in tow, the lingering stress of the day evaporates from my mind, unburdening my senses. My lungs welcome a full breath of air since I’ve spent most of my day holding my breath to keep it together. With each step, my day unscrambles into manageable moments that I can piece together in my own way, free from the urgency to quickly process the onslaught of … everything.
Ninety minutes later, I feed Wilbur and Orville and push through a gate behind their shed that opens to rows of raised-bed gardens. Dad tosses a handful of weeds into a bucket and scratches his chin as he glances up at me. It leaves a smattering of dirt clinging to his short, gray whiskers, only slightly shorter than his buzzed salt and pepper receding hairline.