A little backstory before we begin.

Recently, I was considered for a wonderful position with a luxury brand I genuinely admired. And for a little while, I let myself imagine what getting that job would mean.

It would provide financial security. It would get me back to Austin, a city where I’ve always felt most like myself. It would bring me closer to my son and put me within reach of Round Top, where I dream of creating Harp Weaver Manor.

In other words, I’d given one job an absolutely ridiculous amount of responsibility.

And when I didn’t get it, I was devastated. Not just because I’d lost an opportunity, but because I’d allowed myself to believe that one opportunity was going to fix practically everything.

Naturally, my body responded with all the grace and composure of a committee of emotionally unstable middle managers.

And that, dear friends, is how this particular staff meeting came to be.

My Brain Stopped Braining 

An Essay written by Lannie, narrated by her favorite British lady 

I have called an emergency meeting of my body because apparently nobody is supervising it.

There are minutes from the last meeting.

I don’t remember a last meeting, but that’s not particularly compelling evidence these days because yesterday I found my phone in the refrigerator.

The minutes consist of one sentence:

Brain stopped braining.

No date.

No explanation.

No assigned responsibility.

Frankly, I’ve served on social committees with better governance.

Right.

Roll call.

Cortisol?

“HERE.”

“Oh for heaven sake! You’re still here?”

“I NEVER LEFT.”

“Yes. That’s sort of the problem.”

Cortisol looks like Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor from Bewitched, after being made head of Neighborhood Watch and discovering that app Nextdoor.

She has laminated things.

She has a whistle.

She has identified seven suspicious vehicles on our street.

Four belong to neighbors.

One is ours.

Two are imaginary.

All threats remain active.

Adrenaline?

“HERE!”

“Sit down.”

“CAN’T.”

“Why?”

“READY.”

“For?”

“ANYTHING.”

There is absolutely nothing happening.

Adrenaline has dressed for a hostage rescue.

Norepinephrine?

Norepinephrine is standing at the window.

“Here.”

“Could you sit down?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Something’s off.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

Hard to argue with that.

Serotonin?

Nothing.

“Serotonin?”

A blue hoodie underneath the conference table moves.

That’s it.

Just a hoodie.

The strings have been pulled so tightly around the face that Serotonin has ceased being a person and become laundry with a tuft of hair.

“Is that you?”

One sleeve rises.

“Would you like to come out?”

The sleeve goes down.

“Can you speak?”

From somewhere inside the hoodie:

“No.”

“You just did.”

“Don’t.”

Fair enough.

Oxytocin?

No response.

“Has anyone seen Oxytocin?”

“She called in.”

“Why?”

“She said the person she’s missing is dead, so she doesn’t particularly see what we’re all doing here.”

Right.

Moving swiftly along before I cry at my own imaginary staff meeting.

Dopamine?

The door opens.

Dopamine comes in putting on an earring.

“Here.”

“Wonderful.”

“Can’t stay.”

“Of course you can’t.”

“I have a date.”

“You haven’t been to work in twelve months and you have a DATE?”

“I have needs.”

“With whom?”

“Possibility.”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

“Love you!”

The door shuts.

I make a note:

Terminate Dopamine.

Then cross it out because apparently she’s the only employee who knows anybody outside this building.

Next.

“Who gave Anxiety caffeine?”

No one moves.

Anxiety is in the corner bouncing one leg at approximately 340 beats per minute.

“I had a little.”

“How much is a little?”

“A pot.”

“A POT?”

“It was half-decaff.”

“Oh, well, then medically we’re fine.”

Cortisol looks at the floor.

“You gave it to her, didn’t you?”

“She seemed tired.”

“She’s ANXIETY. Tired is the GOAL.”

The door flies open.

A woman in flannel pajamas storms in, dragging a duvet.

Her sleep mask says FUCK OFF, which I feel is unnecessarily hostile branding for Melatonin, but I respect clarity.

“Nice of you to join us.”

“Nice of ANY OF YOU to acknowledge that my department exists.”

She slams down a folder.

“I have been trying to put this woman to sleep for MONTHS.”

Cortisol raises her hand.

“Threats.”

“THERE ARE NO THREATS.”

“Unknown.”

“It’s THREE IN THE MORNING.”

“Historically a very vulnerable hour.”

Melatonin turns to me.

“I want her fired.”

“Get in line.”

“I send the signal. I dim the lights. I lower operations. And then this heifer”—she points at Cortisol—“runs through the building screaming, ‘WHAT IF WE DIE ALONE?’”

Cortisol shrugs.

“We could.”

“SEE?”

Melatonin wraps herself in her duvet and sits down.

“I hate it here.”

“Noted.”

Immune System enters carrying a cardboard box thick enough to contain the Mueller Report.

“What is that?”

“My HR complaint.”

“Against?”

“Everyone.”

“Could you narrow it down?”

“No.”

Apparently Immune System has been operating short-staffed because we haven’t slept properly, Cortisol keeps screwing with management, and inflammation has “gone completely rogue.”

“I’d also like to discuss working conditions.”

“Could we schedule that separately?”

“No. Because you won’t remember.”

Point to Immune System.

She puts the box down.

“I have documentation.”

“Of course you do.”

Then Stomach storms in.

Stomach hasn’t even bothered to RSVP.

“I HAVE A QUESTION.”

“Yes?”

“Why the hell am I involved?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. I didn’t marry him. I didn’t bury anybody. I didn’t move away from a city I loved. I didn’t apply for a dream job and then build an entire imaginary future around getting it. I am a digestive organ. And yet every time she gets upset, suddenly I have to shut down?”

“That’s actually—”

“No. I’m not finished.”

Of course she isn’t.

“I have acid. I have nausea. Some days she doesn’t eat. Other days she apparently thinks cheese is therapy. I am doing everything I can down there.”

“Thank you, Stomach.”

“I don’t want thanks. I want boundaries.”

She points at Cortisol.

“Stay out of my bowel.”

There are thoughts you never imagine yourself thinking.

That was one.

Stomach leaves.

Heart raises her hand.

“Yes, Heart?”

“I would like the minutes to reflect that I cannot keep doing this.”

Oh.

Everything stops.

Heart doesn’t look angry.

Which is worse.

She looks tired.

“Doing what?”

“This.”

She points at Adrenaline.

“She races me.”

Adrenaline clutches her pearls and looks offended.

“Emergency response.”

“There isn’t an emergency.”

“There was.”

Heart looks at her.

“Yes.”

There was.

And that’s the problem.

There was an emergency.

Someone we loved died.

The worst thing happened.

And the body learned something from it:

The worst thing can happen.

Which is information the body apparently considers useful enough to circulate in a daily newsletter.

Amygdala bursts through the door.

“DID SOMEBODY SAY WORST THING?”

“No.”

“I heard worst thing.”

“Go away.”

“I HAVE UPDATES.”

Of course she does.

Amygdala is basically a 24-hour cable news network for my nervous system.

“What updates?”

“Something could happen to the children.”

“No.”

“The dogs could die.”

“Stop.”

“We could run out of money.”

“Enough.”

“Everyone we love will eventually—”

“GET OUT.”

She leaves.

Then immediately emails Prefrontal Cortex.

Prefrontal Cortex raises her hand.

“I’d like to discuss that.”

“Please.”

“I currently have 9,417 unread messages from Amygdala.”

“Delete them.”

“I can’t. They’re all marked urgent.”

“What are they about?”

She scrolls.

“Death. Money. The children. The future. Whether somebody is angry with us. Something we said at a party twelve years ago. A weird noise the Jeep made. Cancer. The dogs. Whether we offended our Bestie. And—”

She stops.

“And?”

“Mama.”

Oh.

There you are.

There you freaking are.

The whole room changes.

Because beneath all this ridiculous biochemical theater—

the racing heart,

the stomach,

the insomnia,

the hoodie under the table,

the woman with the damn clipboard—

is one very simple fact.

My body can’t find my mama.

That’s it.

That’s the meeting.

That’s why we’re here.

Some part of me is still wandering through the building saying:

“Where is she?”

Oxytocin is waiting for someone who isn’t coming back.

Amygdala knows somebody disappeared and thinks if she remains sufficiently vigilant perhaps we can prevent this from ever happening again.

Heart knows better.

Heart always knows better.

And even Cortisol—the absolute exhausting cow that she is—thinks she is saving my life.

They aren’t trying to destroy me.

They’re trying to solve death.

Which is ambitious.

I’ll give them that.

But you cannot cortisol someone back from the dead.

You cannot outrun grief with Adrenaline.

You cannot sleep through it, although Melatonin would appreciate the opportunity to try.

You cannot digest it.

You cannot think your way out of it.

And apparently you cannot even dopamine your way out of it because that wench has a date.

So.

New business.

“We are not fixing Grief.”

Cortisol nearly comes out of her chair.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“I mean she isn’t broken.”

Silence.

“She doesn’t need fixing.”

More silence.

“We’re going to have to learn how to carry her.”

From beneath the table, the hoodie speaks.

“Sounds terrible.”

“It does.”

“Will there be snacks?”

“Probably.”

One string loosens.

Just one.

But I see an eyebrow.

Then the door opens.

Dopamine.

She’s back.

And she’s carrying one of those cardboard drink carriers full of smoothies.

“How was Possibility?”

She shrugs.

“Promising.”

Of course it was.

She puts the smoothies on the table.

“I brought drinks.”

From underneath the table, one blue sleeve slowly appears.

“Which one’s mine?”

Dopamine looks at the labels.

“Blueberry banana.”

Serotonin comes out six inches.

And maybe that’s recovery.

Not the inspirational quote version.

Not closure.

Screw closure.

I don’t want to close anything.

She was my mama, not a checking account.

Maybe recovery is simply that the staff slowly stop behaving like the building is on fire.

Melatonin gets a shift.

Stomach gets a meal.

Immune System takes a freaking personal day.

Adrenaline stops standing on the furniture.

Cortisol loses the whistle.

Serotonin eventually becomes a woman wearing a hoodie rather than the hoodie itself.

Dopamine occasionally shows up for work.

Heart keeps beating even after insisting she can’t.

And one day Oxytocin comes back through the door.

She still misses her.

Of course she does.

That’s her job.

But perhaps she has finally figured out what the rest of us are still learning:

The person you loved can be gone

and the love can still be here.

Which seems biologically inefficient.

Emotionally inconvenient.

And, frankly, a terrible business model.

But there it is.

I pick up the minutes.

OLD BUSINESS:

Brain stopped braining.

I cross it out.

NEW BUSINESS:

Brain has resumed limited operations.

Management remains concerned.

No one is to give Anxiety caffeine.

And Dopamine is required to leave a number next time she goes on a date.

Meeting adjourned.

Love, Lannie♡