I had graduated from college in December 2010, and lived with my mother until the end of August. Classes resumed in a week, and how did I know this? My sister was still going to school.

That week, I stayed with her in a hotel and considered my options. I spent hours every day looking for jobs online, calling local places, sending out more resumes and cover letters. I took a taxi to the local mall and picked up as many applications as I could. I emailed a few of my past design professors, telling them my situation and asking them for advice. Unfortunately, there was no advice to give.

I had a brother who lived a few miles from campus. I considered staying with him. I began to change my mailing address for a few of my subscriptions. But I knew it wouldn't work. My brother was possessive of his space, and difficult to get along with. And I knew I would wear out my welcome very quickly.

When the week came to an end, my sister and I both knew what was going to happen. She moved into a dorm and started another year of school. I moved back home, into my father's house, where everything began.

I can't say exactly how long I was in disbelief. The days and nights melted together into one endless chain. I gave up looking for jobs. I played video games when my father was home. When he wasn't home, I would take a few Benadryls with a glass of brandy and fall asleep. This wasn't new, really. I had been taking Benadryl for a long time.

A few summers ago, when my sister left, I started to take Benadryl. I was already familiar with the effects of diphenhydramine; I had a brief flirt with allergy pills my senior year in high school. A few years later the head nurse at the university health center prescribed me Prozac and Clonazepam. The Clonazepam was intended to help me relax until the SSRI started working. I fell head-over-heels in love with it.

My birthday wish for years was to have my memory completely erased. I knew that was impossible. But Clonazepam and Benadryl were the next best thing. Not only did they help me forget -- they made me stop feeling. They put my body and mind to sleep. And as long as I was asleep and numb inside, nothing could hurt me.

One night during that summer my sister left, my father began talking to me about the past, and about my mother. I had taken Benadryl. To my delight, it made my spirit coil up and sleep. My ears heard the words, and my mouth responded with vague, reassuring phrases, but nothing touched me. I sat there, watching the patterns of the living room rug bleed into one another, slowly stroking the dog, until one in the morning. That was when he stopped talking. And I stumbled into bed and fell asleep.

Sometimes I would take so much Benadryl that I would wake up in the morning forgetting that I was alive. For a few moments everything looked unfamiliar, and I was unfamiliar to myself, and the whole concept of "life" was unfamiliar. It was as if someone had cracked open my egg and I was seeing the world for the first time. But then things would come back.


Now today I am here wondering if I took so many Benadryls that part of me never woke up. Inside, I feel fragmented. I feel like a part of me has been shut down, or isn't there, or is asleep. I don't feel like all of me is here. Inside, everything is empty and blank.

So, I said that for two years I have been wandering in the desert. I would tell God that. "I'm not sure why I am in this desert right now, God. But I know I will get out of it."

Yesterday night I realized that I wasn't in the desert.

I am the desert.