Fingers on the wall

I join the queue and follow their cars. It's raining outside and my windshield wipers must be broken. They move but leave a smear on the glass. I can only partially see the cars in front of me.

The roads we're on are full of speed limits. Even the car is warning me about speed checks, and I hope they don't accelerate too much as we head to the restaurant.

I've entered the restaurant's address into the car's navigation system. I did it when I left school, thinking that if I got lost I could turn it on.

But I'm not very good at using it. I still don't know how the two or three main buttons on the screen work.

So, given the fatigue I feel and the headache, I hope I don't find myself alone having to figure out where the restaurant is, find a parking spot, and find them inside waiting for me.

We arrive at the parking lot and I manage to park in a corner. They've already gotten out and are waiting for me. I cover my head well, the pain is slight but constant, and the rain could make it worse. I don't have an umbrella and, besides the hat, I pull up the hood.

One of the guys with us makes a joke. He doesn't know what I've been through and finds it strange that I'm walking around so covered up. 

He probably doesn't notice that I also have the fingers of my left hand pressed against the wall. The wall is rough and tilted. I've been following it since we turned left after the hedge.

I think it's his turn to hear my story. I always try to avoid it as long as I can. I know that every story about my life ends up transferring a bit of pain to the person I'm talking to. 

So usually I keep everything to myself. Others only know the superficial part. The stupid, flighty one. Going in there means seeing something else entirely.

I look at him, I understand that he needs an explanation. I tell him they removed a brain tumor and that this is the fourth time I've left home. That I struggle to go out alone.

He looks at me and asks if it's a joke. During the days we've spent together in the course, he's always seen my silly side. He's seen me wandering around the carpentry shop joking and making fun of others.

He, like everyone else, doesn't know how much effort it takes me every time to get to school and stay with them for all those hours working on the machines with the noise they make. And rightly so. He doesn't need to know.

That course is a challenge I wanted to try to face and it shouldn't be a burden for others. Even if I rely on their presence to be able to go every day.

They don't know it, but they are the reason I can make that half-hour drive and those hours in that constant noise that makes my head shake. Every day I smile thinking about what the surgeon who operated on me would say if he knew what I'm doing.

As we go inside, he opens the door for me. Years ago, due to other physical or mental problems that I had to forcefully tell people about, I felt weighed down by being protected. I had always seen myself as a figure who took care of others. Not the other way around. The opposite was a weakness for me. I was the strong one and as such I had to keep my pain and fatigue to myself.

Now I was glad he held that door. Not only was he helping me concretely in that moment when I was struggling to walk, but it was a gesture that told me who he was. Him as a person. It made me understand that from that moment on, if I needed him, he would be there.

The tumor is just the latest in a series of problems. It's not even the most tiring to bear. The most annoying ones are the mental ones, which limit me daily. I've come to accept that I'm not an independent person and that I constantly need help from others to live.

No one could live completely alone. Everyone is a child of the people who have crossed their lives and is part of a dense network of relationships. And now these people I've known for a month, twenty hours in total, five for each Saturday, are a piece of that network.

I smile as he opens the door for me and I follow them to the table. I'm not able to go there on my own. I just follow them and smile.

When we sit down, they start talking and joking about the course we're doing together and the many mistakes we make every time. Every now and then they look for my gaze to get me involved. 

They are four and only two know about what happened to me last year. None of them, however, know that I also have mental disorders that, combined with the tumor, cause me an enormous difficulty in being present. Mentally present at that table.

I am physically with them, but mentally I am closed in on myself. I spend almost all my energy trying to remember where I am, where the car keys are, and how long it takes to get home in case I feel bad.

Reassuring thoughts that need attention. Thoughts that help me survive, that need most of my energy.

My coursemate in front of me asked me a question. I'm still focused on what they said a few jokes earlier. I didn't catch it right away. I noticed that he didn't understand why I got lost again and I'm forced to give an explanation.

Once again, I have nothing against these explanations I have to give. But I know that at lunch, stories about me don't help to have fun. On the contrary. 

Whatever I say about myself, whether it's physical or mental problems, ends up turning off the conversation. People's eyes for a while move away from the table and look for a distant point to take refuge in.

What can you say to a person who tells you they had brain surgery?

Generally, they remain silent and wait for you to reassure them with a joke and tell them that everything is fine. Yes, everything is fine. Yes, I'm fine now.

No, I'm not fine. But I tell you. I tell you anyway. Because I know it helps you to know that everything is okay.

What could you do otherwise knowing that I can't go more than a few kilometers from my home? 

That when we joke together, then I go home hoping to get there as soon as possible because I struggle with every curve I make.

So I wait for those looks to return to the table and I tell them everything is fine. While I say it I feel them distant and I know that as soon as they start talking again I will lose them again. I will hear their jokes. I will feel what they feel, what they are, but I will always arrive late.

The pain increases. The feeling of fatigue too. I've finished my meat and grilled vegetables. I think that for that day I've asked too much and that it's probably time to go. But I waited a little longer.

They ask me why I can't eat gluten and lactose. When did I start having problems. I hear some jokes about something else from the guy on my left. 

He's the guy who opened the door for me and they're jokes that I would like to understand better. They are very good. Made at the right time and they need great concentration to be understood.

I just watch them pass. I don't even try. I just noticed that when others laugh they must have been good.

The girl who is with us is the first one to know about my problems. I've learned over time to find a particular person to confide in. This time it was her turn.

To get noticed, she didn't have to do much. She simply smiled at me when I made one of my stupid jokes shortly after we met. But above all, she told me that she's the man of the house. That’s what a woman has to tell me to conquer my heart.

Any woman who wanted to stay away from me should know that she should never tell me she's the man of the house.

Usually I would have just enjoyed knowing it and kept it to myself. But I have fun cutting to the chase and I tell her what that phrase and her presence in that course mean to me. Of course she gets annoyed. But I'm used to it. Also because usually they have more time to learn to put up with me.

In this case, however, she has to do some intensive training. Putting up with me and knowing that she is the reason I can go to that course. It can't be easy.

For years, finding someone like her has been my first priority in everything I do. I seek them out, find them, and build a connection, and thanks to them, I survive.

Years ago, I would have hated myself for it. Now, this need to create bonds is a part of me that I enjoy very much. It's probably my favorite part. It's the gift of my reaction to a life that would otherwise confine me to my home.

That lunch, which is a normal thing for my companions, is a conquest for me. Maybe it seems small from the outside, but for me it's enormous. My life is made up entirely of small conquests. The size of these depends on one's perspective.

To others, I might seem to always be close to home. For me, every trip with a shopping cart down a supermarket aisle is an unexpected journey.

The pain increases. So does the feeling of distance. I realize that, no matter how present I am, I can't follow much of what they're saying. I know that getting up and leaving will worry them and I'll have to tell them everything is fine, but I do it anyway. I get up. I tell them everything is fine. I give the smile I've learned to give when I say everything is fine.

I say there's no problem with going by car. I smile. I say I have no problem, I'm just a little more tired than usual. I smile. If it were a message, I'd put a bunch of emojis to be more funny.

I pay and leave the restaurant. Once outside, I realize I don't know where my car is. One of the most unpleasant effects of what I have now is that I forget things or get lost while people are talking to me.

Usually I solve it with a joke, but if I'm alone and have to find my car, it's not very helpful. I hold the receipt in my hand, because if I get completely lost I'll need someone to accompany me back to the place. It's pretty sad to think about, but it's my life now.

I hold the receipt, touch the wall. I notice that it's rough and tilted. It's the right one.

I follow it and arrive at a hedge. Behind the hedge is the parking lot and I see my car. Even now I couldn't say whether I turned right or left. I only know that I've retraced my steps by following my fingers.

At the car, I struggle to do everything necessary to turn it on, reverse, and leave. No anxiety, no potential panic attack. Just a lot of pain. But I'm used to that.