Today I went to Walmart to refill a prescription and got distracted by some hair products that were on sale, buy one, get one free. I didn’t end up buying anything, first because I wasn’t impressed with the selection, second because Ben Franklin said, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” So even though I don’t really have a job right now, this afternoon I earned seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents (plus tax). That’s better than minimum wage. Impressive, I know. Anyway, the description for one of the Redkin products said it was for “highly distressed” hair. So now I’m going to start describing myself this way whenever I “just can’t,” telling even total strangers when they ask how I’m doing–

“I’m highly distressed. And you?”

I’ve been partially dragging ass all afternoon–not at my best, not at my worst. When I woke up this morning I had two voicemail messages waiting for me–one from the insurance company of the guy who rear-ended me just over eight months ago and one from the office of my immunologist, whom I’m supposed to (finally) see tomorrow for the first time. The doctor’s office was simply confirming my appointment, and the insurance company said they were ready to start discussing a settlement. (When I called back, they didn’t answer.) I’m excited and nervous to talk to them, just as I’m excited and nervous to talk to my immunologist. In both cases, I’m ready for all this shit to be over and to have the worst (I hope it’s the worst) behind me. At the same time, I’m worried things won’t go “my way.”

Last week, after having been through hell with a rather personal skin rash, things calmed down dramatically when I changed my laundry detergent. I’d been to see my dermatologist and told him I thought my detergent was the problem, but he guessed psoriasis or “possibly cancer.” He said this with a straight face. (Do they not teach bedside manner in medical school?) So he removed a chunk of my skin and sent it off to be examined. (I picture a guy in a white lab coat asking a piece of my scrotum, “Where were you on the night of January 3rd?” Of course, my scrotum would answer, “Home alone, as always.”) Anyway, earlier this week my doctor’s nurse called with the results.

“The lab says it’s ‘an inflammation whose cause is unknown,’ and the doctor says he’d like to see you again in a month. Until then, continue using the cream he prescribed.”

“Well, okay,” I said, “but I changed my laundry detergent, and the problem is almost completely gone.”

She paused. “You may have found the cause that was unknown.”

My thought–Yeah, except for the fact that since I told the doctor about the detergent, the cause wasn’t actually unknown.

Okay, y’all, I really hate to say this, but everything my poor personal skin went through may have been worth it for this one phrase–an inflammation whose cause is unknown. Just as I’m considering referring to myself as “highly distressed” on bad days, I’m also considering referring to this last year (or even my entire life thus far) as “an inflammation whose cause is unknown.” Like, everything’s been going wrong and falling part–I’m all worked up over here–and no one can tell me why.

Why? There’s a loaded question, like one the frickin’ universe NEVER answers. (Read the Book of Job if you don’t believe me. The gods are NOT in the habit of explaining themselves.) Earlier today one of my friends on Facebook commented on yesterday’s post and referred to everything I’ve been dealing with and challenged by lately as my “dark night of the soul.” This is a term first used by St. John of the Cross, and–according to the dictionary on Google–refers to “a period of spiritual desolation suffered by a mystic in which all sense of consolation is removed.” I’m not sure about the mystic part, but the rest sounds about right. Not that I haven’t had any consolation through my recent trials and tribulations, but many days it’s felt like that scene in The Princess Bride in which our hero, Wesley, has been nearly mauled to death by an ROUS (rodent of unusual size) and the prince’s henchman nurses Wesley back to health, pats him on the shoulder, and says, “The prince and the count always insist on everyone being healthy before they’re broken.”

Thanks for the–uh–consolation?

Broken. Spiritual desolation. The dark night of the soul. Talk about highly distressing. That being said, these are explanations, or at least a way of looking at things, that I can handle. Find someone you admire, someone who is strong and kind and spiritual, and I’d bet seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents they’ve endured a dark night of the soul. I don’t like it, but this seems to be “the way things work” down here. So maybe this inflammation’s cause isn’t truly unknown–maybe it came along to help turn me into a stronger, kinder, more spiritual person. Joseph Campbell says, “We must be willing to let go of the life we imagined so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” Surely a letting go of this magnitude doesn’t come without a few dark nights. Or, as taught by the story of the mythological phoenix, surely a new life doesn’t come without the old one first being burned away.