Chaos was my easy mode. A quiet, boring Tuesday nearly finished me. Took 47 years to get the diagnosis that explained both.
Spilled ranch dip on my keyboard at 10pm trying to finish two daily site reports simultaneously. Lost my fucking mind for about forty five seconds. Laughed. Cleaned it up. Kept typing.
Shitty pizza. But a good night.
Two jobs running simultaneously for a full summer. Double the reports. Double the emails. Double the everything. I mean —
Never burned out. Finished strong. Was already looking for the next one before the dust settled.
Ate like garbage for three months straight. Tried to balance it out with the occasional salad. The port-o-potties on the work site disagreed daily. Nobody needs that visual. Sorry. Back to the story.
Thought that was just how I was wired. Looking back — I think that summer re-wired me somehow.
Got home on days off that fall. Leaves turning. Cold beer. Dog asleep in the corner. Girlfriend at work. Opened a resume I hadn't touched in two years and added both projects. Started thinking about ribs almost immediately — low and slow, five hours minimum. Snapped back. Read through 20 years of work. Grinned the whole time.
Hit save. Closed the laptop. BBQ time.
Nobody knew that was a celebration. Didn't need them to. Quiet tip of the hat to myself and that was enough.
Got the diagnosis at 47. Sat with it for a minute. Brain went straight back to that summer. Two jobs. Ranch dip on the keyboard. Port-o-potties. Ribs. The grin when I hit save.
Two simultaneous construction projects was easy mode. A quiet, boring Tuesday was the hard part. And only now did it make sense.
What did your brain need that nobody ever told you was okay to need?
And to this day, I have a complicated relationship with ranch dip.