They told me working in a kitchen gives you great life experience.
What they didn't tell me is how shrill the metal pots and pans would sound clinking together.
Or how the breaking of glasses on a wet grimy floor could remind me so much of the gunshots that haunt my sleep from the childhood I never wanted.
How stupid was I to think I could withstand such loud, sensory shaking noises and sensations without sending myself into a panic nightly.
Long hours, with nothing to show for it. Aching body with no way to slow down.
"You need to take your earbuds out in front of the guests so you seem more interested in their needs" even if customer service isn't part of my job description.
How do I seem interested when I can't even say focused long enough around this crowd to pay attention who i'm crashing into.
If the noise wasn't enough for me to want to shy away, it's clear I've never met the physical sensations.
Scalding water splashing skin too sensitive to stay in the sun more than 10 minutes at a time.
Rough cloth rubbing fingers through gloves meant to protect.
But perhaps the most overwhelming; the smells.
Hot garbage comprised of food scraps, soaking wet bread, and paper.
In a hot kitchen on an even hotter Texas day.
Backed up drains filled with gray sludge desperately pleading to be emptied and cleaned so they can swallow the melted ice to cool down.
Smells like rot if I've ever smelt it.
I always thought my problems came from not feeling enough.
But the gunshot bangs from the pots and pans have shown me that I actually feel too much.
