Veni. Panicked. Dissociated.

A long dispatch from the North Sea about, uhm, not sure what

My friend A. warned me not to publish things that sound like journal entries.

Which, naturally, is exactly what I’m about to do.

I’m visibly floundering through life, and everyone keeps asking about my plan. I don’t have one. Usually I pretend I do. I tell people I’ll figure it out after I publish the book. After Germany. After a week in Holland. Always after. Then after arrives, and I still have no clue.

I don’t even know where to begin. My mind goes blank. The only thing that comes to mind is that Einstein quote about how we cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them. The problem is, I know I created them, but I can’t remember what thinking I used.

I’m not very good at thinking lately, and I’m not particularly good at doing, either. I’m not entirely sure what I’m good at anymore. I wish I had a grand reveal. Veni. Vidi. Vici. Mine is more like: Veni. Panicked. Dissociated.

I do know that I like watching the seagulls here on the beach in Holland. My dad says there are twelve different kinds. I haven’t verified this. It sounds like something he’d know.

I can’t answer questions like: Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world? I don’t even know if I want to live anywhere in the world. I can only imagine what home would feel like.

Safe. Cozy. Full of sunlight, with one very dark bedroom for nesting. Lots of art. Cats, obviously. Preferably Maine Coons. Maybe near the sea. Frida Kahlo had monkeys and parrots at Casa Azul. I could settle for cats.

Every evening, one visits the house here. Its fur is impossibly glossy. I meow, and it rubs against my legs before allowing itself to be picked up. My mother hates it. She claps her hands until it runs away with its tail held high. She finds this hilarious. I don’t.

Anyway. If we’re designing my imaginary future, there should be a striped hammock. My mother has fallen out of the hammock here six times. She claims her ass is black and blue. I have remarkably little sympathy. Not because I’m vindictive. I’m simply out of fucks to give.

...

Sometimes it’s nice being looked after like a child. Last time I was here, about 5 months ago, I desperately needed it. This time I wish people would treat me like an adult. But that’s difficult when you’ve spectacularly dismantled your own life. So we’re back to Plan B. Or Plan C. Or whatever letter we’re on now.

When I was younger, I told everyone I wanted to start a commune for old people. We’d grow vegetables and hold healing circles. I’ve reached the age I imagined when I invented that fantasy. The only problem is that unless I’m running the cult, I no longer want to join it.

...

I’m writing this lying on a bed in one of my favorite places in the world—a tiny dot on the North Sea. It used to belong to my brother. He sold it, but the new owners let him rent it every summer. I know I’m lucky. I know exactly how lucky I am. Gratitude and despair are terrible roommates, but they seem perfectly happy living together.

My parents are healthy. They’re energetic. They have the combined stamina of two sugar-high toddlers. People assume ADHD looks like that. Mine mostly looks like freezing. I bump into doorframes. I sleep with dinosaur hands and wake up with cramps. Not exactly the inspirational LinkedIn version.

...

Everyone else went shopping today. I stayed behind because I felt too barfy. My dad just looked at me, genuinely bewildered. How can one person be this complicated? I tried explaining, once again that I’m “highly sensitive.” That got a good laugh.

Meanwhile, this is the same man who spread blueberry jam on a ham-and-cheese croissant yesterday and drives like he’s completing side missions in Grand Theft Auto.

I love him.

I love my mother, too.

Even when she tells me I’m effing stupid. It’s amazing how a sentence can survive decades. Maybe that’s why my nervous system permanently assumes it’s about to be called an imbecile.

...

My body hurts. Eventually it won’t. We’ll visit another charming Dutch town. I’ll walk ten steps behind my family to avoid questions about my future. Maybe I’ll finally rent that boat.

If nothing else, it’s one decision.

Maybe it will trigger an epiphany.