Henri Matisse

Always changing house

I've only ever lived in three buildings. The first one, because of me, we had to leave within the first year of my existence, and the second one I spent most of my life in, about 21 years. 

And that one building was many more houses than most people live in during their entire lives, to my great annoyance. And probably to my parents their great annoyance too; I don't believe they had much control.

Anytime I woke up, I had to relearn the layout -- I often had to clear out the dishwasher, and there wasn't a day where I didn't need to ask where something needed to go (and they'd always complain about having to explain the 'logical' layout).

I remember one early morning waking up and still finding my mom moving closets in the living room. I told my dad she was up early, and he replied that she hadn't slept yet, which probably indicated a stressful period, but I was too young to understand.

The weirdest part is that somehow, my apartment seems to be struggling with similar issues, though suspiciously now, I do always know where everything is.

Pablo Picasso

Cubism

The keymaker

The apartment building I moved to has an electronic lock that needs a keyfob to open. I only received one, a fact that irritated me the day I moved in, but the rent is cheap, so it's hard to complain.

One day, when I came home from a walk, the front door didn't open anymore, so I went to another that didn't open either. 

I've never felt so vulnerable. Of course, I assumed that my keyfob was the problem, and anxiously I called a keymaker to replace it, who told me I had to come over, which I did.

Surrounded by many large keys, the keymaker skeptically asked me what was in front of my apartment building. I assumed to figure out whether I lived there, and nervously, I thought and, after a minute, crying, I said I didn't know.

The keymaker, now confused, asked me why I was crying, to which I again responded I didn't know before the keymaker told me they ordered my key and I could go. So humiliated, I walked back home to a locked apartment complex.

The GP

People who accurately understand how they're feeling are geniuses. I'm never sure how I feel, and often, I'm sure I don't know, which drives me crazy. 

One day, I woke up, and I just felt weird. Generally, I hate dealing with people and being in situations that I'm not familiar with, so it took me two weeks to call and go to the GP. 

Unfortunately, at first, I assumed that it was some stomach problem, maybe that I had poisoned myself, as I still relatively recently went to live on my own and, admittedly, some of my health habits were awful.

For two and a half months, the GP and I explored and did tests to understand what it could be. We concluded that it might be something mental.

And I appreciate the GP. When talking to her, I very much felt listened to, although sometimes I'm not sure if she fully got what I said. 

But now, and this will probably take years to understand, I don't know whether to be thankful for her help or upset about how long it took to come to such an obvious conclusion.