Residents Only

The little boy looks puzzled as I move up the stairs to my room. “Why is she going there daddy?” “Because I live here!” I want to yell. Later I learn my room has been an integral part of this group’s self-led tour. I can almost see them crowding eachother, gawking through the windows to catch a glimpse of a true ashram dwelling. “It is all made of wood! Who is that blue man with the flute?” In my mind I quickly scan my room. Unmade bed? Check. Floor covered in clothes? Check. Dirty underwear? Most likely. I don’t like other people seeing my mess. But I keep on spilling.

I experiment with riding the wave, going with the flow. I write two songs in two nights, get hooked on the Walking Dead, sing autoharp in between. This is the good life. Making friends, cracking jokes. Why so serious?  But it is an illusion. My mind still thinks, “If all is well, all will be well”. But of course it is not. I am told in the office that I am too much and need to calm down. That I need to keep myself in check for I disturb others. I react annoyed while blood rushes through my veins. Did someone just turn on the heating?

I feel stupid, I feel ashamed. Maybe I should never work in the office again. Maybe I should leave the ashram. Maybe… I need to take a deep breath and a long bath. The world isn’t ending, I will be fine. The girl on the phone sounds shocked about our thorough medical procedure. Just when she wanted to get away from it all, we present her with the facts: “You are ill”. When I was younger I wanted to go on a holiday without myself. I still do. But guess what. There is no escape. So I do what I can, and make a sign. Residents Only.