A while ago, my friend, author, journalist, jazz fiddler, and all-around badass, Amy Biancolli, suggested I start writing vignettes about my life. Damn the publishing agents, just write! If you know her you can read this last sentence in her voice—I know I can.
Recently I happened upon a short little vignette I wrote years ago. In it, I was discussing a problem of pneumonia. I'll post it bellow, but before I do, I wanted to reflect on a few things:
- It's amazing how much changes with time.
- It's amazing how LITTLE changes with time.
Instead of pneumonia, my health crisis last year was sepsis! Is this a level up? (I think I leveled up!) - What the hell was I doing here? Thank god things are different now.
“…just let me go, already.”
“…just let me go, already.” The thought kept permeating my brain. An incessant, but quiet nagging at first, that soon swelled to a booming roar. I was 19 years-old at the time and dealing with the worst pneumonia of my life. Sure, I was no stranger to medical mishaps, or battling something severe, but this felt different. Hurt differently. Felt… different. I’d always known up until that point that I would take whatever life had in store for me and deal with it accordingly, but there’s something sobering about drowning in fluids for a week-and-a-half without any signs of letting up.
“I’d survived intense surgeries, why can’t I handle this?” The thoughts of self-doubt kept swirling around my head in a way that I’d wish upon no one. Perhaps it was my own egotism screaming back at me that caused these sinister introspective thoughts, or perhaps something else. I never figured it out, and I frankly don’t give a fuck what caused those feelings to live. I’ll do everything in my power never to feel that way again. But unfortunately, I was not at a point in my life to realize this.
“…just let me go, already.” Somehow or another into day eight… nine? Maybe it was day ten of this illness; I found myself saying it aloud. The damnedest thing was: I don’t even really remember saying it. Not really, anyway. Not in a sense that would “hold up in a court,” as the phrase goes. What I do remember was my body seeming to fall through an endless swirl of darkness that was cool yet hot. Uninviting, yet calm. It was the weirdest feeling ever; the crossroads of serenity and fear raced towards me, yet somehow, I was OK with that. “I’d surely suffered enough, no?”
“Not now!” “What the fuck? Who’s that?” The next few moments I can’t quite recall, either, but rather the memory is predicated on recollection by my dear friend, Tarri, who was also my nurse at the time. I cannot imagine what she felt as she heard me mumble again and again, “just let me go,” but what I do remember helps me understand, even if slightly. Rather than remembering saying that sentence, I remember being slapped and jostled awake. It was at this moment I knew I had to fight further. Push harder. As soon as I could, I found the strength to turn the tide, and as evidenced by these writings, I survived. What happened next was what led to a series of delayed downfalls.
Rather than dealing with this reality, I turned to distractions: college, music, work, relationships. Anything and everything I could do–albeit subconsciously at the time–to avoid mentally dealing with what had occurred. I’ll never forget when the façade of distractions and “I’m OK” type-behavior would come crashing down. All it took was a toxic friendship and emotional bonding–though I admittedly wanted more out of it–to force me to confront it. This girl and I really loved to lean into each other’s wounds and traumas. When we weren’t laughing, we were often drinking. These were in the days that I considered seven to eight shots of liquor a “good start to my evening.”
As this connection continued to grow, so too did the toxic co-dependent behaviors. It felt fucking amazing to know someone out there hurt as bad, though differently, as I did. Wonderfully toppling headfirst into depression, I kept drinking. Kept laughing. Kept… avoiding. “Want to go to trivia (and drink)?” “Sure!” “Want to go to the Queensbury (and drink)?” “Hell yeah! Let’s go.” I definitely thought any time spent with her was the best, and I was along for the ride. It wasn’t until that connection snapped in half that I realized I needed to “face the music.” That I’d failed to do so, and that by failing to do so, I off-set my life and made so many things problematic to my personal life. So many things. “I need to change.” “Therapy? No, fuck that, no therapist will know what I’ve gone through.” This debate waged back and forth for a year or so, but as of me writing this I’m still in therapy, and proud of that eventual decision. I realized I needed help. I realized I can’t do things the way I had been doing them. I can only imagine what I’ll realize tomorrow.
Since I started truly digging deep, thankfully the “just let me go” sentiment has quelled. I can’t even hear it all, despite any best efforts to hear any sort of its whisper. The whisper I hear in its place, with growing fervor by the day? “Don’t let me go, just let me stay.”