Simple Problem

By Jessica Lake

My name’s Billy.

And my problem is simple.

My parents let me watch way too much TV when I was a kid.

My favorite? Any medical drama.

They all parrot the same thing: if your life is a dumpster fire, something awful must’ve happened when you were really young.

Some seminal childhood trauma that explains everything that followed.

And once you uncover it?

Bingo!

You get your mojo back.

You get your job back.

You get your wife and kids back.

You get your truck back.

But not your dog.

Your dog is dead.

And life is good.

So, I did what any strapping man would do.

I looked at my past.

And came up with— Squat.



Not to say I didn’t find a few things—mostly useless—but they were more like “NHHS Wins Regionals” than “Local Boy Raised by Wolves.”



But I kept at it. Because if there’s one thing, I’m not— It’s a quitter.

I don’t know why I say that with pride.



Everyone says you’ve got to know when to quit.

⸻

Now here’s something you should probably know.

I’m weird.

Not you’re on the street creepy-stalker kind of weird.

More like you wouldn’t want to hang with.

I say odd things.

I can’t read a room.

I stare at stuff too long.

Worst of all, you can’t get me to shut up.

I rant.

I ramble.

I remonstrate.

I dilate.

But only about things nobody else cares about.

Go figure.

⸻

Here’s a memory of mine.

In second grade our teacher read us a story.

The Seven Blind Best Buddies.

“Watch out for my elephant,” a little boy piped up.

The seven besties had never heard tell of an elephant.

What sort of creature could this be?

“Does your elephant bite?” said the bravest.



So, they each touched it.

The tallest touched the tail.

The funniest felt the leg.

“Like a tree.”

The guy “No one liked” touched a tusk.

“It’s like a goddamn sword!”

They argued for hours.

In the end they threw their heads back and laughed because that’s what best buddies do.

BTW, I made the best-buddies part up.

But the rest?

Exactly as I remember it.

Back to school.

The teacher asked, “What does this story teach us?”

The class gave answers like:

“Did they all live together?”

and

“What’s going to work? Teamwork!”

And me?

What did I learn?

“It teaches us that no matter how many blind men touch that elephant—

or how fiercely they argue—

you can never truly explain an elephant.

That’s all we get.

And it makes me sad.”

Silence.

That kind of thing happened all the time.

⸻

I always thought if I could just explain myself clearly enough, people might finally give me a break.

Nope.

Inside my head, I’m normal.

Just kidding—

Inside my head, it’s worse.

I can think about things for hours and never get bored.

But not about places I’ve been.

Not about people I’d meet.

Not about what happened yesterday.

Not about my life.

It’s all existential bullshit.

How best to live a life?

If the universe doesn’t care—

Why should we?

I just want to explain how things work.

Is that so wrong?

⸻

Okay.

That’s the good news.

The bad news? I’ve had three intrusive voices in my head.

They tell me I’m no good.

I’ll never be good.

And the little good I can do that’s good.

It is gone for good.

Then the self-hate hits—

a threadbare truth that I’ve been a piece of shit all my whole life.

It’s not hard to see why.

When you’re weird and stuck in public school for twelve years, kids can be mean.

Really mean.

Not just insults or shoves.

Mostly the way they looked at me.

Like I wasn’t human.

Like I wasn’t even interesting.

Anyway.

Back to television.

I did what every shrink and quack swore was the silver bullet.

I looked for that one really bad thing.

Half a century later, it turns out the TV fibbed.

Nothing bad ever happened to me.

Turns out I was born weird.

Over two years of therapy the ugly secrets came out slow and messy.

First, I learned I’m on the autism spectrum—

way over on the high-functioning side.

That explained a few things.

Then I found out I have Aphantasia.

Shakespeare called it the mind’s eye.

Well, I don’t have one.

Or maybe mine’s blind.

Did I mention I can’t recognize faces either?

But I still kept digging.

“Why?” you ask?

When all I found was bad news?

See above: I don’t give up.

⸻

And that’s when I hit pay dirt.

Something called Severely Deficient Autobiographical Memory.

AKA SDAM.

This wasn’t just an inconvenience.

It meant I was truly weird—like from-another-multiverse weird.

I happened to read this:

“Inside an autobiographical memory you share the emotions and thoughts of a younger you.”

You can do that?

Turns out—

I don’t have memories.

Let me back up.

This is what I’ve been told.

I don’t really know how regular people work.

I only know what goes on in my head.

So, a lot of this is guesswork.

And it’s probably wrong.

But I don’t give up.

Imagine a documentary crew behind your eyeballs, filming your life.

New footage every day.

They edit out the boring parts and keep the milestones—

the scenes that make you-you.

That film is your memory.

You can revisit it whenever.

Step right back in.

You are privy to your former self’s thinking, feeling, vision, and sound.

That’s a memory.

⸻

Well, guess what?

I don’t have any of that.

What I have are notions.

Guesswork wrapped in probably.

⸻

Say you and I go to the beach every year.

The beach changes.

We change.

You remember each visit as a distinct memory.

I don’t.

All my visits get smashed down into one notion.

No picture.

No sound.

No dialog.

No thoughts.

No “Hey, that’s me.”

Nothing.

My life story is about as exciting as an encyclopedia.

Only no illustrations.

And the kicker?

That’s how I was made.

There’s nothing I can do about it.

There never was.

That’s all I get.

And it makes me sad.

But inside my mind?

I soar like an eagle—

swooping through ideas and the stuff ideas are made from.

I see connections nobody else sees.

How things touch things.

How the whole is greater than the parts.

I am living fully in the moment.

No annoying memories interrupting me.

No alluring memories beckoning.

Blessed silence.

No ponderous chains of keepsakes dragging behind me.

And boy, can I explain things.

⸻

Too bad I can’t just live in my head.

I would.

But I can’t.

I get lonely.

I am very lonely.

And I’ve always been alone.

⸻

Still, I try to consider myself lucky—

even though I’m not.

I try to consider myself gifted—

even though I’m cursed.

Because that’s what people do, right?

⸻

But there is one thing I am grateful for.

Now I can stop trying to explain myself.

Oh yeah.

Billy is gone.

I’m finally Jessalyn.