Hayeon Lee / If You Are Reading This, This is Your Sign to Crash Out

 

Quentin Parker: Indecision / Percentages

 

Indecision / Percentages

Quentin Parker

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My first diagnosis was an “unspecified” ADHD. I have a habit of almost, but not completely, meeting the benchmark when it comes to mental health evaluations. It took months for the label to shift from “unspecified” to “inattentive,” and a year for my therapist to suspect a possible overlap with autism. This was either due to or despite my autism screening results coming up inconclusive; she said it was unlikely that a non-autistic person met any of the thresholds, at least in her years of experience. I was instructed not to spiral about this, that my life wouldn’t fundamentally change with an eventual autism diagnosis, and that Google was the last place I needed to search for answers. Luckily, I was proactive and went to Reddit to corroborate her theory before the session ended. 

The signs seem to have always been there. I can now pinpoint the moments in my adolescence where I boiled neurodivergence down to being a kid: the excessive talking to my classmates in the second grade when we were expected to learn, my hyper-specific (bordering obsessive) interests that lasted years until I abandoned them completely, how I procrastinated on nearly every major assignment until a day or two before the deadline because the time constraint was more actionable, the overwhelming need to spend money so that I could have things for the sake of having them—only to forget they existed once the newness faded. Without knowing, I taught myself to hide in plain sight. My impulses became jokes and I laughed off my lack of motivation to do tasks or make decisions that didn’t result in immediate gratification. The phrase, “I’m just a boy,” was a crutch for my mind’s shortcomings. When I couldn’t hide, I masked the traits completely. I suppressed the urge to plan my responses and cut in the second someone finished a sentence, maintaining my composure when they’d go on another tangent and I lost my opportunity to participate. Once I sat in a graduate-level literature course unable to do anything other than daydream or fidget or pretend to read, I realized I’d actually been hiding from myself.

The ADHD diagnosis wasn’t revelatory or cathartic, it was inconvenient. Day-to-day tasks overtime became noticeably herculean compared to when I juggled almost twenty hours in the writing center, multiple 400-level courses, a teaching assistantship, an honors thesis, two capstone projects, nine graduate school applications, running a literary magazine, a 6-day-a-week workout schedule, intermittent fasting, and persistent essay submissions in my last year of college. Answering the long-standing question of how my mind worked meant that I suddenly couldn’t “lock-in” my way through academia. If I wasn’t on campus, I was lying in bed. I hated lying in bed. But I also loved it. But I also couldn’t not do it. I went years without meaningfully reading a book that wasn’t assigned and I couldn’t write unless there was a due date attached to the essay. Cooking dragged on longer than ordering food and waiting for it to arrive at my doorstep, the hard work already done for me.

My therapist introduced me to the concept of “habit stacking.” It was a logical solution to my problem: attach the things I want to do to something I already do routinely. If I run out of clothes to wear for the week, I can load the dishwasher after loading the laundry. If I need to buy gas, I may as well go to the grocery store while I’m still in the car. The hope is that one task snowballs into another, then the snowballs become dominoes, until every task has been knocked down sequentially.

Reading and writing are roadblocks. My brain hates to choose. In an ideal state of mind I can pick up a book that interests me (enough) and voluntarily begin to read, but I struggle to get past the action of staring at letters on a page; nothing flashy, nothing shocking, nothing extra to flood my brain with dopamine. Pages and text and pages and text until it ends. If I want to find something more in a book, I have to work for it. Essays are no different; there’s no finish line on a blank page. Concepts and outlines aren’t results, only “maybes.” I can spend hours revising, striving for perfection, because nothing needs to be made—just shaped. I can easily exhaust myself at the thought of focusing on one book, and many books, and one essay, and many essays. The repetition of reading and writing is incredibly unappealing, yet they’ve remained passions of mine since the sixth grade.

I started rolling dice because I needed something to do with my hands and my brain. Something repeated but not repetitive. For the last six years my “special interest” has been Dungeons & Dragons, which translated into an obsession with collecting dice (if and when my budget allows). Before I started playing, I developed a dice ritual. Everyday I rolled them in sets: d4’s, then d6’s, then d8’s, etc. I did this until I rolled the maximum number on each die. My ritual became an absentminded form of stimulation, something I’d turn to when I was bored at home, an alternative to scrolling social media or playing games on my phone while sitting in front of my laptop. This practice can take just a few minutes to complete if I roll really well, and some days I can do it for up to an hour, rolling slowly and methodically or messily and frustratedly until I get my desired results. In my creative nonfiction workshop course, we were given the task to develop a side practice; I decided to gamify incentive.

Dice rolling has been a method of circumventing my (possible) AuDHD. The rule set is necessary for success: the d4 represents the 4 essays I planned to revise for the semester, the d8 represents that 8 books on my shelf that I planned for months to finally read, the d6 and d10 represent that various times I allotted to read and revise so that rather than leaving task completion to the horrors of the indefinite, I knew there was a point in time where I’d be required to stop. However, structure is never enough. The dice incorporate a tasteful randomness where I never have to decide what book to read or what essay to revise, otherwise I can easily talk myself out of it. The dice, in removing the burden of choice, require me to switch between projects when they deem it so. They tell me exactly what to do and how long to do it, with options and variety. A near perfect reverse psychology. 

I act in sequence now, after years of behavioral contradictions and searching for ways to trick my brain while needing my brain to be aware of the tricks. The dice don’t create the doing, but they leave me with something I can do without much room for argument. I can leave my thinking to percentages.

Clare Boyle, Articles of Faith, Featuring Drake

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Dear G, 

It has been seven months since we began talking about God nonstop. Technically, God’s name entered the chat when I was trying to tell you about the light in Arizona. 

But really, we had been walking towards one another on our Godjourneys for a long time. 

You know this: Over the past five years, my life has changed and changed in ways that can sometimes be disorienting. I’ve lived in four cities, in at least ten apartments. I’ve had about that number of jobs. Who’s at the center of my life has changed a lot over this time, sometimes because of friend break ups but also, often, because of banal things: busyness, distance. 

In September, having just moved to another new place, I began needing to trust that there was something inside, or behind, or coursing beneath the surface of life that would remain if everything else fell away. I was not concerned with whether our spirits persist after we die. I was scared of the possibility of a future in which I would feel like there was nothing/no one I loved enough for me to get out of bed, as had happened in the past. This was the fleshy pink center of my Godwanting. 

Your own Godjourney was accelerating around then, too, because of wanting to figure out how to be a good uncle to your sister’s baby without getting fucked up by proximity to her very dogmatic religious community. 

“God” became a recurring feature of 

the Google Doc through which we’ve remained tethered since you moved from Philly to Brooklyn and I moved from Philly to Minneapolis, then Tucson.

To feed our convos, I started mentioning my Godjourney offhand in every conversation to see whose ears perked up, and asking all of those people how they define “faith.” I chose “faith” instead of “God” for a few reasons. It seemed less likely to ruffle feathers as an entry point if an interlocutor had a very rigid definition of God. Also, in what I felt to be its forward-lookingness, “faith” still dealt directly with what I was worried about. This perception of “faith” as future-oriented was soon unseated. 

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September, 2025 

Lesson: Faith is waking up one day to realize every beautiful thing in your life. - M

Object: Dried rose 

M said this to me when we were sitting beside each other on the curb near the gas station, drinking chocolate milk. The gas station is where I first met M, one hundred degree September afternoon. She was sitting in the shade by the door, asking if anyone could spare change. When I asked if she wanted a snack or drink, she chose chocolate milk. I had to ask the cashier to unlock a literal chain coiled around the refrigerator door in order to buy one for her and one for me. When I handed M her bottle, we bonded over the drink’s delightful efficiency as a drink. (In addition to being sweet, it packs a hefty punch in terms of both carbs and protein.) 

M started talking about God pretty much right away. She explained she was an angel rather than a human, something she had to remind herself when she was being harassed for living on the street. When I asked what faith meant to her, her answer reoriented a lot of things for me–specifically, it reframed faith as a practice of gratitude. That felt, and feels, much more accessible than Trusting the Future™.  

M’s friend, sitting with us, gave me this rose, then in tender bloom. 

*

October, 2025

Lesson: God is inside all of us, and the world is a series of doors. - Sadi

Object: Rock from Sabino Canyon

My old classmate Sadi is actually the person who introduced me to the phrase “God journey” (which I then smashed together here), when she visited Tucson in October for a translation conference. As we sat eating lunch in the grass, she explained that her own God journey–which has involved traveling to shrines across Pakistan to archive Sufi and Bhakti oral poetry–has led her to the understanding that “God is inside all of us, and the world is a series of doors.” The phrase “God is inside all of us” reminded me of something I am still learning, something I have to remember again and again: that devotion to community does not foreclose, and in fact depends upon, nurturing one’s inner life. 

I collected this rock on a hike at Sabino Canyon in October as part of a closing ritual with my Minneapolis therapist, who I continued seeing for my first few months of living in Tucson. To culminate a therapeutic relationship, that therapist asks people to go to a place that’s sacred to them, leave one rock, and take another. They instruct people to write a burden they want to leave behind on the rock that stays in the place, and write one reminder they want to carry forward on the rock they take. 

On the rock I took with me, I wrote two things. On one side, “Prayer is more than an order of words”–my favorite T.S. Eliot quote, which reminds me that effort can look like many things, including, counterintuitively, releasing conscious attention to something troubling me.

On the other side of the rock, I wrote something that sustains the possibility of my inner life. No one else knows what it says. 

November, 2025

Lesson: “No need to ruminate about that, it is God’s plan!”- Us

Object: The “God’s Plan” playlist 

The phrase “God’s Plan” feels tinged with menace after Pete Hegseth’s words about a “Holy War” in Iran, but between us, it began as a way to obstruct rumination. There was some bullshit happening in each of our lives in November, and saying, “No need to ruminate about that, it is God’s plan!” as a joke-not-joke was a way to defuse and redirect thinking we knew wasn’t going to lead us anywhere. 

On the phone, we said it to one another in singsong voices. Walking alone through our lives, we muttered it through gritted teeth and grinned. Then one of us (you, I think) typed it into Spotify. 

The “God’s Plan” playlist began with songs about faith, then swelled to include any notable song that referenced God, then swelled again to anything we listened to obsessively during and after you visited me in Tucson for my birthday (such as “Ten Drunk Cigarettes,” whose lyrics we were, in your words, “Put on this earth to learn”). 

*

Godjourney: 

Trying to figure out the nature of God, the nature of faith, and how articulating those things can orient us to ourselves, one another, and the world. Godjourneys may be undertaken both alone and in partnership. 

Godwanting:

A combination of loneliness and longing that becomes beautiful in the moments it pushes you outwards, in moments it “re-tethers” you to reality, to others. 

To quote a poet we abhor but nonetheless bop to,

I believe in you, and it makes me believe more in the world. 

My Objects: A Tiny Cabinet Installation by Caroleine James

My Objects: A Tiny Cabinet Installation 

by Caroleine James

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Whenever I move to a new city (Salt Lake City to Tucson, in this case), I take a collection of semi-useless objects with me, for comfort and familiarity. These are a few of my objects. Some of the descriptions of them are true. Some are lies. Some are a mixture of both.

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1. Hammer

Days after my move to Tucson, I used this hammer to construct a Target bookshelf. After constructing this Target bookshelf, I was very proud of myself. The first evidence my Tucson roommates had of my existence was a loud hammering sound that was me constructing my Target bookshelf with this hammer. I don’t have good enough scissors to remove its tag, so if you have some scissors you believe could do the job, let me know.

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2. War of the Worlds Book Remnant

The Illustrated Classics edition of War of the Worlds was one of my favorite books growing up. The book disintegrated years ago, it was a cheap paperback, but I held onto this cover as a keepsake. Plus, it looks cool on my wall, which is where it resides when it isn’t in the cabinet.

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3. Dinosaur with Painted Toenails

I stole this gentleman from my mother’s garden (with permission). He used to guard her dahlias. Now, he guards my windowsill. 

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4. Cat Claw Clip

I used to be a full-on dog person. Then, after I got this cat claw clip as a gift from my sister two Christmasses ago, I started becoming obsessed with cats, particularly black cats, like the one in the clip. What the clip wants is to be in my hair while I hold a black cat in my arms. Once that happens, the clip will be set free.

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5. Page of Imaginary Cutout Letters

I made this page of imaginary cutout letters for a printmaking workshop in college. This page has a personality and that personality is: trickster. Once, while legally using psychedelics, I thought it might be fun to stare at my page of imaginary cutout letters and watch them dance, but the cutout letters REFUSED to move. Instead, when I flipped the page over, the ink splotches on the back marched across the paper like army men. The page of imaginary cutout letters would not do the thing I wanted it to do, but it would do a different, also cool, thing.

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6. I <3 Honor Code Pin

I stole this from my mother (without permission). 

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7. “It’s A Beaver” Shotglass

This is a perfectly effective shotglass, but these days, I mostly use it to hold my earrings. 

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8. Blackberry Sage Candle

A friend of mine named Sage gifted me this awesome Blackberry Sage candle, which I am afraid to use, since I don’t want to deplete it, or burn down my apartment. Sage and I met in a small town in Alaska. She was a radio reporter and I worked for the print newspaper. Recently, she got a sick new job in Colorado and continues to be a person I am proud to know.

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9. Evangelical Comic Book

I found this mini Christian comic book pinned to a public bulletin board in Wrangell, Alaska. I grabbed it because I loved the illustrations, and because I, too, have been tortured by horrifying anticipation of the moment when Jesus and I will get together to watch a supercut video of all my worst behavior on a big screen. Is any amount of shame enough to expunge the guilt of sin? I think not. But looking the worst thing you’ve ever done in the face is, I believe, a useful skin-thickening exercise.

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10. King Cake Baby

I got lucky once and picked the King Cake slice with the baby in it. In all likelihood, I have already spent the luck I gained from this baby, so if you need luck, ask for him, and I will be happy to pass him on to you. 

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11. Small Silver Dinosaur

His name is Norman.

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12. Rayme’s Bar Token, Good For One Drink

One time, I danced on the table at Rayme’s Bar in a tube top to the tune of “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and the patrons rained these tokens down on me, I’m not kidding. I have a whole bin of them back home.

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13. Jordan/U.S. Flag Pin

Jordan and the United States of America are two of the world’s many countries. This pin represents that fact.

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14. Stone Turtle

His name is Oliver.

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15. Sewing Kit

One time, before a high-stakes job interview, one of the buttons popped off my button-up shirt, due to my chest being so voluptuous. Thankfully, I had this sewing kit with me, and was able to repair my shirt before the interview. The interview went great and I got the job. Then, I got fired. After getting fired, I applied for this nonfiction MFA, where I plan to write a book-length memoir-slash-expose about the events that led to my firing. It’s a great story. I hope it gets turned into a movie. I hope that movie is a musical. Tate McRae would play the role of ME, in a stunning film debut.

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16. Retractable Claw Herb Chopper

I believe this herb chopper could be an extremely effective close combat weapon, similar to brass knuckles, except sharper. I have not had the opportunity to test it, either as a weapon, or as an herb chopper, yet.

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17. Shakespeare Bust Paperweight

David Sedaris gifted me this Shakespeare bust paperweight. After attending one of his readings in Connecticut, I stood in line for a long time to talk to him. The line moved slowly because David’s whole thing was having an in-depth conversation with each person, and giving them a memento from his “bag of crap.” When he got to me, he told me that his landlord had given him this paperweight with the injunction to NEVER GIVE IT AWAY. So, looking me solemnly in the eye, he gave me the paperweight, and said, NEVER GIVE THIS AWAY. Obviously, I have to give it away someday, but I haven’t figured out who to give it to. If you’re a big David Sedaris fan, maybe I’ll give it to you. 

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18. Bunny Head

One time, in middle school, after getting heavily bullied for wearing Vibram Five Finger shoes, I went for a walk around the block, alone and crying. In an instance of divine providence, I stumbled across this Bunny Head on the sidewalk. I put it on, returned to school, and used its frightening, mascaraed face to startle my bullies into submission. Soon, everyone started wearing Vibram Five Finger shoes just like me, because they were (and are) such a cool variety of shoe. And I still keep this Bunny Head with me, just in case.