My Door Is Shut

1

I am not lonely, only careful. I have always been so, as long as I can remember, as far back as the stories of me go. As a youth, I would sit and watch while the other children leaped and played, cried from agony, destroyed themselves for the mythology that was pleasure. But I saw then with wisdom how fleeting their joy was. A joke could be murdered easily by a thrown stone, the humor dissipated by the arrival of a cloud of pain. I wonder, sometimes, if I do not worship the Gospel of Pain. It is not a book many have read, though most understand it through experience. It is a strange book. It seeks to remain closed, the cover telling the story inside. Suffering is its only sin, avoidance its only virtue.

We are not made to thrive. We are not meant for euphoria. This, I have come to understand, is purely an illusion designed for those who wish to give meaning to pain. These are the sorts of people who, after experiencing some sort of terrible event, say a car crash or the death of a loved one, seek pleasure, if not for its greatness, then for its balance. To them, this loss is a debt and any future happiness a payment against it. These people, I suspect, would not seek happiness so desperately if they were not so sad to begin with. We all wish for neutrality. There is no need to look for the positive in a world where the negative does not exist.

Thus, to be careful, as I have always been, is not cowardly, as these foolish people would claim. It is my way of experiencing the world efficiently, avoiding any unnecessary highs and terrible lows so that my mind might remain focused.

My mother died some time ago. I cannot recall when, nor do I have a clear image of how she looked before she was lowered into the ground. I did not attend the funeral. My brother did. He called me after, crying, asking why I did not go. His mistake was reading from the Gospel of Pain. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, at that point. I explained to him that I no longer knew her. He told me that she was still my mother, that she had raised me, and deserved at least the tiniest modicum of my respect. I hung up before he could finish speaking.

Her house, in which I lived at the time, was repossessed by the bank shortly thereafter. She must have missed a few payments, or perhaps she owed them other debts that they could not collect on otherwise. I never knew her financial situation, only that hers was a place I could stay. Until it wasn’t. I didn’t want to go; if I leave you with one thing, let it be that. I was forced to flee, and in this flight, I came face-to-face with suffering. I shudder at this still, my first sight of the sun in nearly a decade, perhaps longer. The grass scratched my ankles as I crossed the yard and held my arms tight to my chest for warmth since the day was colder than I had expected. There was no soft carpet upon which I could walk, no central heating system I could adjust for my quiet comfort.

I found a house in the country. My father helped me. He said it used to belong to a friend of his. When I moved in, the walls were empty, the echo my sole companion. The only furniture was a small chest with a lock on it; I’ve never tried to open it and doubt that I ever will. I was awakened one day by a group of large men, muscular in a way that was rather grotesque, carrying things into my newfound fortress of solitude. I wonder, sometimes, if they knew I was there. I hid in the closet as they worked, pillows pressed against my ears, waiting for them to leave. I emerged from my nest to the rising sun and discovered an entirely new home. Where there had been emptiness, clean and orderly, there was now art, tables and chairs, trinkets and books.

Now the echo is gone, that voice of other absorbed by the things I have never wanted. My mind whines with silence. I leave the TV on. When I sleep, I play white noise to drown out the beating of my heart. There is no thumping of an active upstairs neighbor, no honking of hateful horns, no laughter from children outside my window.

At least, in their absence, they are unable to cry.

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