Doors (pt. 1)

When one door closes, another one opens. So goes the optimistic metaphor. I like it because I’m an optimist, and it’s simple. I don’t like it, because unfortunately for me it’s completely unrelatable. If I were to rewrite this saying to match my life experience it would go something like this:

When one door closes, you've likely created a weird wind tunnel and also a suction that has now offset the equilibrium of the entire house and drastically impacted the temperature in various rooms. the ensuing cacophony of creaking, slamming, and bursting open will last several minutes. Then, you will be compelled to frantically race around the house to reset and re-prop and re-McGuyver a series of doors, fans and windows, as quickly as possible before one of the walls falls off, and then ultimately wait another 6 days for the temperature to re-figure itself out. In summation: thanks for fucking that up - stop touching the doors.

There are at least twenty-seven doors in my childhood home, where my parents still live today. twenty-seven is not an arbitrary guess either. I counted. outside, inside, bathrooms, bedrooms, pantries, ad nauseum. I say “at least” twenty-seven, only because while I truly set out to be accurate, counting became impossible once i got to the basement. There’s an additional 4-5 doors (possibly 4-5 full rooms) past a certain point that i didn’t have the energy willingness to physically go count. Sometimes counting is hard, but the real reason for this impasse is that the basement is where all the bodies are buried (don’t worry about it). sigh. So I’ll say twenty-seven-ish doors.

Of the twenty-seven (approximately) doors in the one hundred and twenty-something year old house, not a goddamn one of them works properly. This isn't a new problem, nor a debatable one. Between the seasonal swelling and age-induced sagging of the frames on the lower floors, to the painfully crude construction of the “third floor” there isn’t a single fucking door that isn’t a joke or a safety hazard. the knobs, locks, hinges, and conflicting directions of swing, force inhabitants of the house into an involuntary game of racket-roulette, but instead of 1 bullet in a revolver, it’s fully loaded semi-automatic. And that’s assuming that said inhabitant even wanted to be quiet, or understood what “quiet” even meant - i digress.The kicker is that if one should ever actually intend to slam a door for dramatic effect, i’d bet you a kidney it would be the one time it shut correctly, i.e. quietly, and with zero repercussions.

My “bedroom” door’s sole function is visual privacy. This “door” is a full inch smaller than the frame it’s connected to on all 3 sides, and weighs about as much as a pack of cigarettes, meaning it serves absolutely no function as a sound barrier, instead contributing handsomely to nighttime wind-induced clamor, with at least 3 different creaking tones and 2 different ways it slams shut. It should also be noted that despite it’s weight and size, it is in fact made of solid matter, and does an excellent job of obstructing airflow and trapping heat into the small windowless attic room. Or out. It traps heat in or out, whichever I don’t want.

Have you caught on by now that this is a needlessly exhaustive metaphor for boundaries? Growing up, I wasn't taught any. The root wound from which my dark and perplexing humor oozes - the metaphorical bodies in the basement…. my lawyer says I can't talk about the real ones yet (sigh). I’m currently rebuilding the “house”. Please enjoy the forthcoming metaphorical restoration saga in Parts II - idk, which will likely include the threat of arson, among other materially destructive acts, simply because additional psychological destruction doesn’t seem possible. You're welcome.