Jesus is hiding in these walls: an interpretation of liminal spaces, and reflections on naïveté, nostalgia, and mental illness

2004:

your grandparents' house before Papa went to the hospital after the incident. the tan air conditioning vents, awkwardly located on the carpeted floor, blowing gusts of cold wind with "that smell" ....  the linoleum in the kitchen glistens as you gaze in that direction while you finger the wrinkled, thick sheet of fabric on the couch in the living room (shawl? afghan? you're too young to understand the meanings of these words but are certain that this is some form of decorative throw blanket lopsidedly draped over the sofa). something that feels like the breath of god fills the room and pressures you into a meditative state. there's no one else in the room, but you feel the presence of someone, maybe even something. its without malicious intent, though, you realize, as you begin to feel melancholic, yet protected. 

is this your guardian angel???? 

you begin to slowly shuffle around the living room, circling around the framed pictures hanging up on the walls. you only fully recognize yourself; the rest of your photographed relatives seem oddly foreign. like an undefinable energy lingering about the location of the house, undetected, keeping watch of other family and visitors. you're too young to participate in the campfire discussions; unmoderated stories of young and old, told by mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, adult brothers and sisters, and various members of extended family.

this is your lore, "the family history." your future source of pride that will last until you reach old age, warranting the pages and pages of inside jokes, grade-school anecdotes, wedding stories, childhood reflections, and endless paragraphs of information to cycle from you to your children and grandchildren.

but you're unaware of the importance of these discussions right now. you're unaware of the importance of any of these events.

you look back at that vaguely strange memory, longing for the completely minute qualities of that old home. the smell of the house, complete with hints of your grandfather's trademark Captain Black pipe smoke. the style of the living room furniture (including a La-Z-Boy recliner from the mid-eighties, adorned with a comfortable, soft material and a deep burgundy hue. "Papa's special chair," as it was known, as he used to sit down and eat dinner on his cheaply special wooden tray table, watching football games and reruns of M*A*S*H, Hill Street Blues, Cheers, and the like. he used to talk about Brett Favre and Fran Tarkenton like they were descendants of god themselves, saviors of a dying American tradition.

the airwaves were a distraction of his. it kept him from thinking about The War, the damage it caused him. sometimes if the campfire stories took a sharp turn he would retell his anecdote about where he was the day of the Tet Offensive. gruesome stuff. you were too young to have heard his Vietnam horror stories, but you can infer. you were a smart kid who was able to attribute words to meanings and emotions, even though you were unaware of their definitions (you would later learn in elementary school that this is known as context clues). 

HE WAS ONLY 52.

Nana was the unspoken glue that held the family together. you didn't know this at your age then, but she helped the family through thick and even thicker. her wit, charm, and motivation to help other people in need, be they family, friends, or complete strangers, was prevalent throughout her life. Thanksgivings and Christmases were your favorite time of year, because that meant tasting her super special honey-glazed ham, as well as her lavish side dishes, including a homemade macaroni and cheese that was to die for, a legendary staple of your family's special dinners and celebratory banquets. indeed, in stereotypical nuclear fashion, grandma did all the cooking. Papa didn't know how to fix a proper meal for himself, other than a sandwich, or maybe occasionally a bowl of soup (chicken noodle or tomato of course. he was a man of standards). Papa wasn't lazy. before the incident he'd put 110% into his job at the sawmill. he loved Nana to the farthest ends of the universe. he wasn't bitter towards her like other husbands his age, it was just a generational thing. the mildly unintentional sexism of familial politics back in the late fifties, early sixties. he couldn't help it, and nobody knew any different.

TEN YEARS LATER, APPROACHING THE PRESENT DAY:

you finally made the phone call today. sat down with your high school counselor and told them what's been on your mind. the cloudy thinking and endless stream of negativity. self-hatred, lack of motivation, drowning your thoughts like a stream of dirty paintbrush water. could probably count the number of times you've showered in the past couple weeks on one hand. you finally opened up about your depression, exposing your thoughts and feelings like words in an ancient coffee table book, lying dormant in your living room, untouched by family for years and swept into the dustbin of your household's history.   

the phone call itself was a bit of a blur to you. it was mostly the counselor who did all the talking. you were comfortable enough with her to open up because you knew her from elementary school as your impromptu speech therapist, as suggested by your IEP. she was the one who dialed your mother's number, spilled most of the information. when she finally handed you the phone, all you could remember was Mom in tears, choking out words. you could tell she'd just been hit with a wave of devastation. nothing could have prepared her for this conversation, whether she'd have predicted this day would come or not. it hit her like a train full of bricks.

i'm sorry for being like this, Mom. please don't cry. i'm sorry for all this trouble i've caused you.

Mom picked you up early from school. she said schoolwork could wait. we had more important matters to attend to, according to her; "bigger fish to fry," colloquially speaking. it was a sunny September day, an interesting contrast to the events that occurred earlier that morning. Mom was taking you to get lunch, a self-care meal of sorts. neither of you talked much on the car ride to the restaurant. to which restaurant both of you would dine in was a mystery. you look outside through the car window and realize you're in an unfamiliar part of town. "the historic downtown district," a sign on a candle shop says. your high school is close in proximity to here, but even though it's in walking distance, you've never found yourself in this area. you both pull up to a local pizza shop and walk inside, being seated by a friendly, pretty woman who appears to be in her twenties and reminds you of a childhood friend you had in kindergarten. oddly familiar memories.

you order a Coke and Mom asks for a diet soda (you can't remember which specific one she ordered, however). food was ordered too. you decide to try their meatball hoagie with sprinkled oregano, homemade Italian marinara sauce, and layers upon layers of melted mozzarella cheese. a comfort meal for trying times. you can't seem to remember what Mom got, but you think it's something along the lines of a personal cheese pizza. she's simple like that, enjoys the classics. takes after her father.

after your entrées arrive and you begin eating, you attempt to make conversation with her. you ask her about how work is going, and she says its going well. bits and pieces of small talk scamper around the checkerboard-patterned table in between bites of food. she asks you how your day is going and you respond that it's okay. she lays down a follow-up question and asks

how are you feeling. be honest.

i'm fine.

no

you're not fine

...

how long have you been keeping these feelings hidden from me.

i don't know. i can't remember.

why did you feel like you had to hide this from me. i wish i could've known so we could have started treatment sooner.

(you avoid eye contact) ...

please answer me.

i didn't want you to be ashamed of me.

why would i be ashamed of you.

you can't think of an answer for the life of you; your brain feels as if it's shut down. you take several gulps of Coke and you both finish your meals amidst a deafening silence, which only became broken up later on by both the shop's patrons and your undiagnosed tinnitus.

you both leave the restaurant and make your way to the psychiatrist's. Mom had apparently scheduled you for an appointment before she picked you up and would be meeting her husband there for you all to talk to the psychiatrist as a family. the trip is short and you all meet up at the independent practice Mom had scheduled your appointment at. Mom's minivan pulls up and she exchanges greetings with her husband. you all soon make your way inside, sitting down next to each other, three in a row. there is nobody else in the somewhat cramped waiting room. there's a fishtank with goldfish, angelfish, and other aquatic creatures living in harmony. you haven't seen a fishtank in so long. you marvel at the pastel-colored rocks at the bottom of the tank. you admire the faux coral sculptures that provide the fish with a sense of security, and the little pirate ship is undoubtedly kitsch, but you can appreciate it as a semi-ironic centerpiece. 

the walls are adorned with framed prints of sailboats on the water. you know nothing about sailing other than that one Christopher Cross song, but it fills you with a strangely familiar emotion; you could look at these pictures and imagine an entire world that these sailors reside in. a utopian universe at peace with itself, an environment filled with bliss. 

you begin to stare at the floor and the emotion seems to be leaking through the polypropylene carpet, the same texture of carpet in Papa's old residence, the feeling becoming more enhanced and less subtle. its the same emotion you felt as a youngster back at your grandparents' house. the illusion of shelter during an early time in your life. a period of naive happiness from before the fog set in, uncorrupted memories of youth from the golden age of childhood, from before the veil was lifted from your eyes and you began to see the world how it truly is.

the magic moment begins to intensify and you can almost feel someone (or something) otherworldly watching you. a surreal reminder that you're being protected by a phenomenon in the universe. the guardian angel from a bizarrely familiar dimension of reality is checking up on you. its been so long. so terribly long. you've missed them dreadfully since that spiritual moment at your grandparents'. a refreshing dose of normalcy and sanctuary from the thing that's known you for the longest time. longer than your parents, since before they've met or even known that each other existed. a predestined birth designed by the creator and his assistants from before the creation of time and space. you are unbelievably special. your experiences are unique to you and only you, handcrafted by the ones who oversee you and know every aspect of your personality, motivations, opinions, and more. you begin to realize that maybe heaven exists on earth, through these special experiences crafted by lord-only-knows. moments igniting an innate emotion not experienced since childhood through special pieces of scenery and architecture; designs and aesthetics lost to time or cultural evolution, with any remaining locations, usually abandoned, sporadically scattered all across the globe in a cosmic reminder that everything will be okay. nostalgia for the neurodivergent generation. 

you soon come down from your silent experience. it finally hits you that Papa is gone, has been gone since you were just a child, and you will never be able to go back to that special house in his neighborhood. you have accepted this as it is, and you are now aware that, though you may still miss him, there is nothing you could have done to prevent his passing. Nana is a widow. Mom has divorced and remarried to someone other than your father. but you are not at fault for any of these. the ecosystem of the sea of humanity balances itself out at the end of the day, and does not discriminate. all walks of life are affected. in the meantime, all we have are memories of past, remembrance of a simpler time. one of innocence and harmony. the only thing you can do from here is attempt to live in a way that would make Papa proud.

you now feel a different emotion, one you haven't felt in ten years. it might not last forever, or even for the rest of the day, but you relish in it and appreciate it for the time being: inner peace.

FLUOXETINE, 20MG. REXULTI, 4 MG. ITADAKIMASU.

(dedicated to Bill, Maria, John, and Zach, angels who once walked this earth but were tragically swept away from us far too soon, all currently protecting us from forces outside of our control. may they spend their earthly rest in peace, power, and prosperity for the remainder of time's arrow.)