The Dopamine Diaries: Dispatches from Home

 The Dopamine Diaries: Dispatches from Home

 It’s a quiet morning—if you don’t count the crows in the woods hosting what sounds like a bitter custody battle, the hummingbirds dive-bombing each other like sugar-fueled fighter jets, and the finches chirping around my garden like it’s the opening act of a Disney flick. Mercifully, the backyard corgi breeders’ canine choir next door (five strong, all soprano) haven’t found their voices yet.

Beamer, noble loaf that he is, is curled up beside me for his post-breakfast nap. My coffee cup is half full (I’m feeling generous), and my back is delivering a vivid report on yesterday’s overambitious gardening, shopping, and cooking. There are dishes in the sink muttering about abandonment, laundry that dreams of being folded, a camper still trailing breadcrumbs from the road, and a thousand other chores lobbying for attention. And yet—here I sit.

I miss being on the road. I don’t miss dragging the swaying blue bubble behind me like a reluctant hippo on wheels. Beamer was thrilled to be home at first, but lately he’s been… off. Not sick, not sprightly. Just low on butt-wagging voltage. I worry. Is he bored? Is something wrong? He can’t say, and I can’t stop wondering. Maybe I’m just projecting.

The back pain’s been relentless since I returned from my month of visiting—a foghorn in my nervous system, reminding me that yes, I once lifted, bent, and twisted my way through decades of jobs with the invincibility of teenager. Cortisone shots, PT, dieting, stretching—I’ve been checking all the boxes, but the fine print says: “Results may vary after 70.” I’m thinking of checking out the local massage school. Maybe they’ll take pity and knead the rebellion out of my spine at student rates. Honestly, I’ve just been whacking away at my garden and unloading my camper, without a thought about the consequences. Time to take it easy, I think.

I’m also feeling tired because I’m buried in the archaeological remains of every hobby I’ve ever flirted with and wanting desperately to lighten my load, especially for the person or persons who will be responsible for my things once I’m gone. A studio, an apartment, and storage space full of artistic one-night stands. (Well, maybe a few months relationship?) Each passion left behind a trail of tools, supplies, and half-finished promises. I dream of paring it all down to a monk’s inventory list—camera, computer, toothbrush—but even starting feels like shoveling fog.

My coffee is gone. Time to wash dishes, fold clothes, take Beamer out to sniff the wind and do his democratic duty. I don’t have many choices—either slog through the pain one stubborn hour at a time, or give up entirely. I just dream of waking up without it.

***30 minutes later…

Dishes: done. Beamer: outside. Me: back on the bed with caffeine jolt number two and my pharmaceutical wingmen. The laundry: still waiting. The dopamine cavalry is on its way. I might toss in some Advil and rally, because that’s just how it works in my world.

Truth be told, I’m feeling alone. Not stranded-in-the-desert alone, but surrounded-by-people-and-still-lonely alone. The kind of aloneness that echoes louder in a crowd. Here in Eugene, I “know” a lot of folks. Friendly, familiar folks. But no one who wonders how I’m really doing. No one who’d notice if I quietly slipped away for a few days—or a few years. It’s not self-pity. I get it. Everyone is busy with their own families, health, travel, work, projects. Me too. Mine just happen to be solo.

I don’t really feel that deeper connection with anyone here. (No offense to you who might be reading, but I think you get what I mean.) Is that what I miss? That sense of intrigue, of mutual discovery? Maybe it’s a longing for creative spark or intellectual chemistry. I wouldn’t say no to an old-fashioned infatuation—doesn’t have to be romantic, just someone worth lighting up for. But these days I mostly find myself allergic to small talk and half-baked opinions and prefer to spend much of my time at home. Maybe I’ve become too opinionated myself—an ornery old broad with a sharp tongue, a worn out bullshit detector and not much patience for superficiality. (Shrug.) Oh well.

It’s gray again. No sunrise, just a flat, uninspired ceiling of clouds. Still—beats the 100-degree inferno baking most of the country. My second cappuccino is almost gone, and the dopamine’s finally finding its rhythm. These days, that’s the only high I’m after. I don’t understand how a few of my friends, at our age, can continue numbing themselves nightly like it’s an Olympic event. Then again, maybe I do—considering what’s happening in the world right now. I just choose a different lane. I bowled in that one for many years and got all the T-shirts and trophies I needed.