I live here now.

The detour to understanding the trivialization of suffering is impossibly long, winding through history, politics, our very biology which, when working properly, does not allow us more than a pit stop in Panic lest the salt-rich air begins to corrode. If you don’t keep moving you risk becoming stalled in Suffering, which always welcomes a permanent resident. I don’t know how much further the road goes, but I know enough to assume it’s endless.

I’ve settled into Acceptance, which is just down the road from Suffering by way of Anger where I lived for a few years and still own property. It’s been helpful getting to know my neighbors here, but learning the language took time.

Travel-tip: “That sucks,” is a full sentence and sometimes the only appropriate reply.

Visitors are scarce and when they do come, they mostly pretend not to see my car on blocks in the lawn. If the silence grows too loud some will offer suggestions for rotating the tires. One gives me directions to the car wash, and another gives me a card to the guy who painted their car a bright shiny red.Petty, but I shred the business card with relish when they leave.

On rainy days, most days, I can hardly see my car through the streaked living room window. I pretend it doesn’t belong to me. I stay inside, stay busy, don’t think about how the rust is spreading or how it looks to passersby.

On sunny days, l stay outside so long I burn. Catching up with neighbors over fences. Frost says, “Good fences make good neighbors,” but questions what they keep out. No one wonders that here, we all know it’s privacy we are keeping in, embarrassed of our mess most days. But on the rare warm days we meet at our respective boundaries. We sip coffee and swallow pills, discussing the work to be done as we take turns nodding sagely.

If the sun stays out long enough, I’ll grab my toolbox and try to get the old girl running myself. Mechanics don’t care about her like I do, I tell myself. I carefully inventory the new rust, making a parts list as I go. Wrenching things back into place. Reinforcing pieces that have worn down. Attempting to put a little spring back in the suspension. I work until the clouds roll in, eye on the sky.

That’s dangerous though, waiting till the drops begin to fall. It’s hard to feel like I belong in Acceptance while watching the rain strip my hard work away. If only I’d listened to the weather report, I think, shrugging into my guilt and zipping it tight. If I hadn’t pushed-on in hopes of finishing, my repairs would have had time to set and dry. I mentally calculate if I can afford a trip to Anger.

Sometimes, I wait until I’m soaked to go in. Until my hair is plastered to my face and ice-cold rivulets run down my neck. At least then I can pretend the weather is the only reason I have to wipe my eyes.