I took a box to the garage. That’s it. That’s the story.

Except apparently it isn’t anymore.

The box had a couple of things in it that needed to go into the Goodwill pile. Normally, this is something I wouldn’t think twice about.

I don’t like going up and down the stairs unnecessarily, so I’ve always been pretty good at combining trips. I’d take the Goodwill stuff downstairs, notice the clean laundry in the dryer and bring it upstairs, maybe consolidate a couple of boxes while I was there, and grab something that needed to go into the car because I was leaving later anyway.

None of this used to require a committee meeting. My brain just did it.

But this time, I got the box downstairs and suddenly had no idea what to do with it. Not because I didn’t know what Goodwill was, or because I’d forgotten why I was holding a box. I hadn’t forgotten that the clean laundry needed to come upstairs either.

I knew all of those things. I just couldn’t figure out which thing to do next.

It felt like I had walked into a room full of doors. I could see the doors. I knew they went somewhere. I even had a pretty good idea what was behind most of them.

But which door was I supposed to open?

Put down the box with the Goodwill things. Okay, but where exactly? Maybe I should move those other boxes first. But if I move those, shouldn’t I consolidate them? Wait. There’s laundry. I should bring that upstairs so I don’t have to make another trip. But I’m holding this box. Where am I putting the box?

And suddenly I’ve opened another door and walked into another room.

More doors. Acccckkk!

This is one of the hardest things for me to explain about Parkinson’s and the changes I’ve experienced in executive function. I know how to do these things. That’s important.

I haven’t forgotten how laundry works. I haven’t forgotten how to organize a garage. I haven’t lost a lifetime of experience managing a household.

What has changed is my ability to move easily from one decision to the next. Things that once happened almost automatically now sometimes require conscious processing.

And when I’m especially fatigued, even tiny decisions can start multiplying. One decision becomes three, three become seven, and before I know it, I’m standing in the garage holding a perfectly ordinary cardboard box feeling as though I’ve been dropped into a labyrinth.

This is also why fatigue can be so devastating. It isn’t simply, “I’m tired.” When I’m tired, I have less processing power available for all those tiny decisions that most people—and I, until fairly recently—barely notice they’re making.

Where does this go? What should I do first? Can I combine these two things? Should I take that upstairs now or later? Do I have enough hands? Am I leaving the house today? Was there something else I was supposed to bring to the car?

Every question is another door.

So I’m trying something different: One destination. One purpose. Done.

If I’m taking a Goodwill box to the garage, my job is to take the Goodwill box to the garage. That’s all.

If I see clean laundry, I don’t have to deal with it. If I notice boxes that could be consolidated, congratulations to the boxes. They can continue living their current lives. I can come back.

This feels absurdly inefficient to the part of me that has spent decades figuring out how to make one trip do the work of three.

But maybe efficiency isn’t the goal right now.

Maybe reducing the number of doors is.

Because sometimes the problem isn’t that I don’t know where I’m going. I know exactly where I’m going. I just need fewer decisions along the way—and I need to stop opening every door I pass.