A Sticky Situation

Well, I can safely say that all that “stick picking” in my Mommom’s yard as a young girl left me with one oddly specific talent: I know a good stick when I see one.

And I had the useless Dollar Store finds to prove it: bouncy balls that bounced sideways instead of up and down, gum that lost its flavor faster than you can say, well, “gum,” and coloring books with cheap crayons that made RoseArt look professional grade.

The promise of one of those Dollar Store “gems” lit a forest fire under me. No stick was left unpicked.

Eventually, though, I started looking for a very particular kind of stick.

It needed to be long. Strong. Slightly curved. Long enough to stretch past the hood of the tractor as I mowed between the rows of Christmas trees.

Because the spider webs were everywhere.

And that stick was my only defense.

The patent-pending Jen Hale Spider Web Defense System.

I held it straight out in front of me as I mowed, ready to poke, destroy, and deflate each spider’s perfect little butt-string masterpiece before it had a chance to touch me.

But there was always one that got through.

And when it did, I went into anaphylactic shock.

Not literally. But you know the feeling.

A spider web hits your face and suddenly you’re swatting at your hair, slapping your neck, brushing off your shoulders, absolutely certain there is an eight-legged creature rappelling down your back toward your underwear.

You get the web off.

You check yourself.

There’s no spider.

But five minutes later?

You still feel it.

A tiny tickle on your neck. A strand across your cheek. Something moving in your hair.

You know the web is gone, but your body hasn’t gotten the message.

I’ve started to realize that my brain works a little like that.

Especially with people.

A woman I was once acquainted with wrote me off with no explanation.

For over a year, I was kind to her.

I didn't do anything that I know of.

She didn't have to like me.

People are allowed to remove me from their lives.

I'm never going to know exactly why.

And yet my brain has been going:

Okay, but WHY?

It clings to those invisible strands of spider silk I’m still brushing off long after I’ve driven through the web.

And the tricky thing about a sticky brain is that it doesn’t just remember the words.

It tries to finish them.

That's the Web

Last Fall, I posted something harmless on Facebook.

Not controversial. Not political. Just a happy little post about my students and the gifts they had given me the second week of school.

As a very overwhelmed first-year teacher, they meant the world to me. So I wanted to share their kindness with my world.

Minutes after I pressed “post,” I received a text message from this woman.

Except I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant for me.

It appeared to be a reaction to my post intended for someone else, complete with an eye-roll emoji.

My heart immediately started racing, trying to process what I was actually seeing.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I put the phone down.

Then, I saw her name pop up again seconds later.

The original message had been “Edited,” and the eye-roll emoji was gone. In its place was a friendly message asking how teaching was going.

Oh shit. Take II.

I didn’t respond.

I deleted it immediately.

Even after it was removed from my text thread, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had accidentally gotten a glimpse into a conversation I was never supposed to see.

I don't know what she made of my silence.

Eventually, she unfriended me.

Then she blocked me.

Good riddance was easy to utter in theory, but I was still left with one tiny, maddening, unanswered question.

Why?

That’s it.

That’s the web.

I can accept that not everyone is going to like me.

At least intellectually.

I can accept that people are allowed not to want me in their lives. I’ve certainly made that decision about other people.

What my brain can’t seem to accept is not knowing why.

Because if I knew why, surely I could do something with that information.

Right?

Room-ination

No amount of Feng Shui can fix what’s plaguing my poor, overworked HSP brain.

In fact, I’ve coined a special word for what happens when an unresolved interaction becomes an unwanted squatter, refusing to leave no matter what…

Room-ination.

Because rumination sounds far too innocent for what is actually happening.

This thing has forwarded its mail...

It has a key under the mat…

It gets Uber Eats and Amazon packages delivered on the regular…

And for more than a year, every intrusive, meandering thought about this has gotten caught in my overstocked brainweb…

Maybe she misunderstood something I said.

Maybe I unknowingly offended her.

Maybe someone told her something about me.

Maybe she thinks I’m annoying.

Maybe I am annoying.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

The problem is that every answer creates another question.

If she misunderstood me, would I want the chance to explain myself?

If I hurt her without realizing it, would I want to apologize?

If she simply doesn’t like me, would knowing the reason make me feel better?

Or would it just give my brain a brand-new sentence to obsess over?

I keep thinking there must be an answer that would make the whole thing click into place.

But what answer could she possibly give me now that would make the original hurt unhappen?

I’ve gone over my own behavior more times than I can count.

Did I say something?

Did I do something?

Was I unknowingly a jerk?

If I hurt someone, I want to know. I really do. I’d rather apologize and own it than walk around thinking I’ve never done anything wrong.

But how many times can I search through the same pile of evidence when there’s nothing new in it?

Apparently, my brain’s answer is: a lot.

Okay, but THINK HARDER.

Maybe you’ll figure it out this time.

Web Traffic

There is one other unfortunate detail.

Our paths still cross from time to time.

And even when our paths aren't crossing, I still notice cars that look like hers.

Lots of them.

Sometimes I spot one and immediately wonder if it’s her. Sometimes I find myself looking at the driver. Sometimes I realize I’ve noticed the car before I’ve consciously decided to notice anything at all.

The web touched me once.

Now my nervous system keeps looking for the spider.

And I wish I could tell you that I have handled every one of these chance drive-by encounters with the grace and maturity of a deeply evolved woman who has done extensive work on herself.

I have not.

One morning, I sat at a red light. I happened to notice her car stopped at the same red light on the other side of the road. As we passed each other, I pressed my hand against the car window and discreetly lowered all of my fingers except one.

Yes.

I covertly gave her the bird.

Was this mature?

No.

Did it briefly feel good?

I regret to inform you that it did.

Did I drive away afterward filled with peace, closure, and a renewed sense of emotional freedom?

Absolutely not.

Because apparently the middle finger is not an evidence-based treatment for rumination. Or room-ination, if you will.

I still didn't know why.

The web was still there.

Something Is Starting to Smell

My grandmother used to quote the infamous Ben Franklin adage, “Company and fish start smelling after three days.”

This particular “houseguest” has been hanging around my brain for more than a year.

Mommom, I hate to admit it, but this fish has decomposed and fossilized itself into my brain matter.

And maybe that’s what I’m finally beginning to understand.

The problem isn't that I still remember what happened.

Of course I remember it.

It hurt.

And still hurts.

The problem is how much room I have continued to give the unanswered question.

Why?

Why?

Why?

I have treated it like a puzzle, assuming that if I turn it over enough times, examine it from enough angles, replay enough conversations, and scrutinize enough of my own behavior, eventually the missing piece will appear.

But there may not be a missing piece.

There may just be an empty space.

A year came and went.

I think some part of me expected that milestone to mean something. One full year seemed like enough time to write something wise about closure and announce that I had finally stopped caring.

That didn't happen.

I still care.

I still wonder.

Sometimes I still look.

But maybe the progress isn't that I finally figured out why.

Maybe it's that I'm starting to understand why I have needed to know why.

I think that’s why I keep coming back to the why.

If I knew the answer, I could do something with it.

Maybe I could explain myself. Maybe I could clear up a misunderstanding. Maybe I could apologize for whatever terrible thing my brain has decided I must have unknowingly done.

But I can’t do any of that because I don’t know.

And I really, really hate not knowing.

I want to finish the sentence.

But maybe this is one sentence I don't get to finish.

I don't need to decide that what happened was okay.

I don't need to pretend it didn't hurt.

I don't even need to promise myself that I’ll never think about it again.

Maybe, for now, I just need to stop walking into that room and rearranging the furniture. Or maybe some eager archaeologist will eventually excavate the fish fossil from deep inside my brain and put it on display at the Smithsonian.

Maybe someday I’ll be driving and a car that looks like hers will pass me.

And I won’t look.

I won’t check the driver.

I won’t feel the invisible strand of spider silk across my cheek.

I’ll just keep driving.

I’m not there yet.

But I want to stop looking.