Outrunning The Past

   During my stay in the hospital some of my family members gave me books to pass the time. One such book was Unbroken, a true and harrowing World War Two story of resilience. If it sounds familiar it's because they just released a movie adaption of it. If you are planning on reading or watching it and want to avoid spoilers feel free to skip to the end of this paragraph. As a book about resilience and the will to survive I imagine it was gifted to me on purpose for inspiration during my darkest times. And it gave me some, at first. The main character Louis is a bomber pilot that gets shot down over the Pacific Ocean. Using an inflatable raft, he survives sharks, the sun, and starvation for over 40 days. On one of these days he made a promise to god that if he made it through this ordeal he will always be his loyal servant. Two of his comrades were with him, and one of them died while at sea. Eventually, they got spotted and captured by the Japanese. After being tortured for information Louie was sent to a particularly brutal prisoner of war camp where he was singled out by a sadistic Japanese officer. Louie survived all of this, barely. At first glance it seemed like a good source of inspiration for me right? Well, the problem was the ending. Louie kept the promise to god he made while stranded at sea and became a born-again preacher after returning home. Now I have nothing against those who choose to follow a religion, but it is simply not for me. Turning to god to make sense of the horrible experiences you've had to endure can be a great coping mechanism when faced with tragedy, but it's never something I will be capable of doing and so I couldn't help but feel a little cheated after finishing reading the story.
 
    Books weren't the only gifts I received from my concerned family.  Earlier on in my extended hospital stay a family member drew pictures traced from actual photographs of happier moments in my life from both before and after I got sick. These moments ranged from eating at a favourite restaurant to my bar mitzvah, the pictures were captioned with the message "Remember all the good times... and the good times yet to come."
The first time I looked at the drawings was extremely emotional. It forced me to confront the unconformable but important truth that in my efforts to end my own pain I was creating more of it for those who cared for me to bear. The optimism of the message was so conflicting with what I felt at the time that I would often simply stare at the line, "And all the good times yet to come," for minutes at a time. I think I was waiting for the moment that I felt the same hope for my future that others did. The drawing now sits next to the door in my room so that I see it whenever I walk out. It will always be a reminder of the darkest pits that I came from, and the highest heights to which I'm going.

 
 





    During one of my last few days in the psych ward I experienced a migraine like no other. I had brought my Game of Thrones book with me but couldn't even think about attempting to read it. I lowered all the blinds in the room because even the tiniest speck of light was blinding. I curled up on a sofa chair, put a blanket over my head, and laid there for literally 4 hours. I must have looked especially wretched because all the super strict staff left me alone for once. At that point it seemed like some godly force was just trying to cram as many bad experiences into my time in the psych ward as physically possible. It was a fitting send off for my final trip home.

   The car ride of my homecoming was an emotional one. I could finally say the worst part of my journey so far, and hopefully forever, was behind me. This milestone moment of course called for listening to a relatable song, aptly named: Setting Sail, Coming Home. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDflVhOpS4E
Unfortunately escaping your past involves more than just psychically removing yourself from it. I learned this from the many nightmares that would come even while sleeping in my own bed. Most of the nightmares would focus on a single specific moment, the moment I woke up from my coma following my suicide attempt. Re-experiencing that moment was torture both physically and mentally. Physically I would compare what I felt to the mythical creatures known as Banshees. If you don't know, banshees are spirits of those who have died that have been ripped from the peace of death to roam the physical world. Their weapon is their voice which wails in pain and confusion, horrifying and incapacitating all those who hear it. Their cries are fueled by the feeling of being ripped from the underworld, or in my case a coma, back into a reality with the chronic pain I've endured for years. If you don't remember the specifics, after waking up in the intensive care unit the first thing I did was start crying and ask the doctors and family starting at me with concern "Why am I alive?!?" I imagine that is about as close in reality to an undead banshee wailing as you can get. Living through this moment once was hard enough, reliving it every night even in the supposed safety of my own bed took its toll. It also made me realize that the past cannot be forgotten so easily. If I couldn't erase the bad memories, I would simply have to use my new-found freedom to replace them with good ones.