On High Alert

I'm on high alert.

It means my nervous system is running at high voltage, and I'm ready for anything at any moment. It feels a bit like those scenes in films where a fly drifts past in slow motion, every beat of its wings stretched out so you can see every tiny movement. Everything seems to happen more slowly and more quickly at the same time.

I become hypersensitive to the world around me. The sound of someone trimming the edge of a lawn is enough to make me wince. If somebody starts up a mitre saw, I might as well lie down on the sofa and press every pillow and blanket I can find against my ears. And don't even get me started on the infernal ice cream truck. Every bang, every revving engine, every slamming door makes my body react as though it were urgent information demanding immediate attention.

At the same time, I seem to have far more energy than I actually own. Hunger fades into the background. The need for sleep almost disappears. I can stay awake all night, and when I finally do fall asleep, it might only be for four or five hours before my body decides it has more important things to do than rest.

Needless to say, it's an incredibly exhausting state to live in. My body is running at full speed, but without a destination. It just keeps going.

The reason for my superpowers this time is that I'm in the middle of moving.

If you can call it that.

Moving usually implies that you have somewhere to move to.

I don't.

I only have somewhere I have to move out of.

And I have one week left.

The problem is that there aren't all that many places to move into. I've contacted every available apartment within a fifty-kilometre radius. That might sound like a serious effort, but in reality it amounts to about eight listings—if you include the ones that won't even be available until next month.

So far, I've received one reply and one viewing. They thanked me politely for my interest before giving the apartment to someone who could put down a twenty-five-thousand-kroner security deposit on the spot. Not to me, whose greatest financial asset is a government-backed deposit guarantee.

If nothing changes soon, I'll be homeless.

Fortunately, it's summer. If I end up sleeping outside, I probably won't die. More apartments will become available next month, but that's not much comfort when what you need is somewhere to sleep this month.

And besides, it's summer in Norway.

Like so many other countries, Norway more or less shuts down during the holiday season.

People are on vacation. Offices are running with reduced staff. Everything takes longer. And it's not as though I can drive all my belongings around by myself. I'm completely dependent on municipal employees eventually returning from their summer holidays so they can help me move.

That's the uncertainty.

And my own helplessness.

It's panic, fear, and frustration. It's a question without an answer, a problem without an obvious solution, and a calendar that grows thinner with every passing day.

There are many reasons why my body has gone into high alert.

And it could be worse.

I still have one more level.

Let's call it maximum alert.

That's the place where sleep becomes a foreign concept, where my thoughts begin to outrun me, and where my body stops standing guard and starts believing it's indestructible.

From there, it's not very far to full-blown mania.

So these days I walk around with a nervous system that's already packed its bags and is standing by the front door, hoping someone will call and say,

"You can move in."

Because that's really all my body is waiting for.