The Eclectic Writer

On the Four-Hundredth morning of the Great Housing Initiative, three busses pulled into a brand new subdivision. The passengers, previously housed in an overcrowded repurposed motel, looked in awe at their new surroundings. 

The busses were directed to the center of the subdivision that contained three hundred newly printed homes. Each one contained one bedroom, one full bath, a kitchen, a dining room, and a living room. Eight hundred square feet of living space.

The passengers unloaded from the busses and were directed to line up in five rows and columns.

“Alright, everyone. Welcome to your new homes.” Chester spoke through a voice amplifier. “Each of you has been given a number. When I call your number, step over to the tables to your right. You will be given a map that will lead you to your new home. Inside your home, in the kitchen, you will find a key to your apartment. It is your only key until you have a copy made.”

The crowd fidgeted, eager to see their new homes. Just a couple of hours earlier, they had been sharing rooms in a building that should have been condemned years ago. It had running water but the water didn’t just run from the faucets. It also ran from the ceilings and the walls.

Chester began calling out numbers and one by one the crowd moved from the lines to the tables. Charlotte was handed a piece of paper that showed where they were and where she would find her new home. She turned and headed toward her new life.

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Off in the distance, several large machines were continuing to print houses. They weren’t as loud as she expected them to be, but they weren’t quiet either. She had grown used to the sounds of the construction machines. Some building houses, others building sidewalks. It had become the ambient sound of the area.

She looked at each house as she passed, each one identical to the one before with the exception of the number plate on the wall next to the door. She noted the size of the street. Just large enough for one vehicle moving in one direction. Not that it mattered. None of them had cars anyway. Even if they did, they wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it. All personal vehicles had been rounded up and recycled for building material and other things. The only vehicles allowed now were the ones for construction and mass transportation. Once the housing initiative was completed, even mass transit vehicles would be recycled.

She found her assigned home. Number One-Nine-Eight-Four. She stood at the door and hesitated. Behind her, people were rushing into their new homes. Squeals and cheers could be heard coming from her new neighbors. She didn’t feel so excited.

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Surely it would be better than living on the streets or in a rundown should be torn down hotel. But she missed her own home. It was a little large for her to keep up on her own but it had all her memories. The children that she raised. Her husband. The family squabbles and dinners. The holidays with friends and families. The Christmas tree that was always too big but never had enough room for all the decorations.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The layout was simple. A small foyer with a peg hook for hanging a coat. That opened to the living room. On the right was a full-sized kitchen complete with a center island. Between them was a dining area with a short wall separating it from the other two rooms.

In the other direction were the bedroom and full bath. The bathroom had one door leading from the hallway and another that led to the bedroom. A simple semi-open floorplan.

The bedroom had a queen-sized bed, a six-drawer dresser, and two nightstands with a small lamp for each. It reminded her of a middle-class hotel room. Not that there would be any of those left once the housing initiative was complete. She remembered hearing that there would be an allotment of one hotel per three hundred miles. The way the infrastructure was going there wouldn’t be a need for any more than that.

The living room had a nice couch. Faux leather three-person couch with a recliner on each end. She didn’t really care for faux leather but she didn’t have much of a choice either. Free was free.

There was also a communication monitor, movie player, and entertainment console mounted on the wall across from the couch. An artificial fireplace decorated the space beneath it.

The couch, she discovered, had built-in end tables that lifted from the side. The coffee table that sat between the couch and the aesthetic wall was the perfect color match. She would have preferred a glass-top coffee table, but again, free was free.

The dining room had a four-person chair and table set with a hanging lamp over it. That was all. Not a lot there. It was a place for eating and maybe a nice gathering.

The kitchen had all the amenities. Stove, sink, dishwasher, refrigerator, microwave, blender, coffee maker, and trash compactor. Everything electric and everything designed for top efficiency. She opened the fridge and was pleasantly surprised that it had been stocked. Everything neatly organized and labeled. It wasn’t full, but it had everything an average person would need. A starter kit collection. She opened the freezer and found a few more items. A frozen starter kit.

She checked the cabinets and found plates, cups, utensils, and all the basics for starting a new life in a new home in a new kitchen. Her excitement led her to the slide-out pantry and again, another starter kit.

Wondering what else she might find, she went back to the bedroom and opened the dresser drawers. Three full outfits were dispersed throughout the drawers. Everything she would need. She found the bathroom to be fully stocked as well.

She smiled as she danced around in swirls throughout her new home. Her new life started today. 

Started here. 

Starting now.

Micheal has a knack for unleashing worlds through words. 📚 Author of soul-stirring tales and heartfelt devotions. He crafts narratives that resonate with the human experience. Let's journey through imagination together! 🌟 #AllThingsEqual #EqualityWorld #Writer #Storyteller

Some ADHDers work best in the morning, some in the evening, and some overnight. It’s not what time you work. It’s when you work best that makes the difference.

This is Neurodivergent Life. Learning about ADHD led to learning about other Neurodivergent aspects - and a lot about myself.

But I do have one stuck to me

I have this bothersome king-sized damp wool blanket draped over me daily. It’s never dry, though the amount of dampness varies. Some days it’s like a morning mist, gently laying on top. Other times it’s more akin to sopping up one of the great lakes. The range between the two covers just about everything. Sometimes it’s hot and other times frozen. This king-sized damp wool blanket, always wet, always itchy, is this misunderstood thing called depression.

Am I clinically correct in my description? Probably not. But what do I know? I don’t have any degree in that regard and the one I do have is outdated. Still, if it helps you to understand, then I’ll stick with my analogy.

Why am I depressed?

Well, isn’t that the $10,000 question? Or is it $100,000 now? Whatever it is, I can’t afford the answer. I guess it depends on how you define depression. Clinical depression, classified depression, chronic depression, mild depression, or whatever category you can think of, may or may not fit me. Again, I don’t know. I’m not a professional. I might have been told but fat chance of me remembering.

Anyway, lest I digress into the Pit of Carkoon, let me move on. Feeling “happy” isn’t a normal thing for me. At best, I’m moderate. Occasionally I’ll have a jolt of joyful excitation - much like a power surge that trips a breaker. And like the power outage, I fall deep into dark despair afterward. However, most of the time I’m functional and can get done what I need to get done. This week has been an exception.

I had a busy weekend. Class reunion, catching up with an old friend, spending some time with one of my sisters. Overall it was a great time. Lots of reconnections, laughs, and stories of days of old. I don’t much remember the two days after that and by Thursday, I was emotionally drained. The wool blanket became soaked. Try as I might, I had a difficult time under the weight.

I tried to think of the reasons I felt so down. There wasn’t a trigger though there were contributing factors. Like having such a busy weekend, unexpected expenditures without compensating income, and finding out my general income had been dramatically reduced. The combination of those, and other factors I don’t care to mention at this time, kept adding moisture to my blanket.

On top of that, I feel bad about feeling bad.

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It could be worse

It’s something people say in an attempt to help you feel better. It might work if the person is just sad or a little down in the dumps. For people like me, it just makes me feel worse. What right do I have to complain when there are so many other people who are suffering far more than I am? How can I be depressed when I’ve got “so much going for me”? Instead of seeing “how good I’ve got it”, I see how selfish I’m being. What kind of horrible person am I to think that my situation is even worth considering?

It piles on from there and, if I don’t put a stop to it, buries me beneath a pile of king-sized sopping-wet wool blankets.

But…potential

There’s that word again. Potential. If you’re not familiar with my view on that, here’s an article that clues you in. Knowing I have the potential for so many things only reminds me that I’ve failed at all of them. Some I haven’t even tried because I “know” I’ll fail. Others I failed because I didn’t have the guidance or the right drive or the right discipline or any number of stubid stupid reasons. One thing I know for sure is that I’ve yet to live up to any of my potential. Discovering it was easy - happens all the time. Doing something with it that’s profitable?... 

HAHAHA

Medication helps

Yes, I do advocate for proper medication in the proper doses for those who actually need it. I do not, however, agree with prescribing (self or by doctors) quick fixes. Medications aren’t a “way out” to avoid dealing with everyday life. They should be used to help regulate and allow a person to interact with day-to-day life successfully.

In my case, medication can be tricky. I become immune to pain medications after the first or second dose. I don’t mean that it affects me a little less each time. I mean by the second or third dose it does absolutely nothing. When it comes to psychological medications, that tolerance is a bit slower but it does happen. I think that might be what’s been going on with me the past few weeks. It’s becoming less and less effective. Or I could just be off my noggin.

Whatever the reasons, I’m less functional and feel less enthusiastic or motivated with each passing day. Some days I’ll get a temporary lift then sink back down again.

Not being a downer

I don’t share all of this for anyone to start feeling sorry for me. Pity parties are solo events. (That’s a joke.) I share this with you so you can know that if you’re going through the same thing, you are not the only one. Millions of people go through it every day and it doesn’t negate any of it. You have a battle to fight through. I have a battle to fight through. People we don’t know have battles to fight through. In a world where people compete for the trophy of Who’s Worse Off, we should be more understanding that my pain doesn’t make yours any less valid.

We all have our tough times and our good times. Most of us have learned not to share our hurt for fear of ridicule, pity, or having people turn their backs on us because we’re “so negative”. I try not to dwell in my personal swamp of sadness. Unlike Artax, I’m not going to get sucked into the muck. Sometimes I need help. Sometimes you need help. We shouldn’t be ashamed to share our stories, nor should we make our suffering our only story.

There is a lot of joy to be found. A lot of peace to experience. Those things don’t always mean happiness, but they will help you get through the dark storms of emotional turmoil.