There’s a special kind of fear you get after waking up from a black out. It’s an anxious desire to know where the hell am i and what the hell happened. The absence of tangible memories creates an ugly and urgent kind of mystery. It’s like an awkward conversation; like asking your own ghost to remind you of dreams you’ve forgotten. I’ve had to ask twice.
The first time was in 2016. where the hell am i I woke up and found myself lying in a vacant lot at around six in the morning. The gray sky and cold air were rude replacements for soft pillows and warm blankets. I lifted myself up from the tall grass surrounding me and I felt dirty – how long have I been sleeping on the ground? The little red ant bites all over my arms would suggest that I had been there for at least several hours. Then I heard hurried cars cruising down the street behind me. I turned and saw a familiar road that told me I wasn’t far from home. what the hell happened Behind that road were the railroad tracks. oh i know now what i was trying to do i was trying to kill myself But I must have passed out in the lot before I could lay myself down on the tracks. I drank too much and the memories stopped, so I asked my ghost what I was dreaming of and he said you dreamt of dancing with death and youd hoped youd never wake up again
The second time was a year later. This time, a Tuesday night. what the hell happened All I remember was drinking again at a bar. But the next thing I remember is waking up on an uncomfortable hillside made up of small white rocks. where the hell am i It was still dark but I heard a great big thing whirring and turning behind me. I lifted myself up from the bed of rocks and turned around – it was a locomotive. here i am again but this time i got closer Again, I asked my ghost what did i dream of and he said you dreamt of dancing with death…
The December of 2017 was almost a third time. Except this time there wasn’t any booze. Instead, I drowned myself in the pages of a philosophy paper that was overdue. where the hell am i This time I woke up on a bed in a hospital room. what the hell happened Instead of walking out to the railroad tracks again, I focused on that paper and forgot my type 1 diabetes. I stopped caring about blood sugar levels and insulin therapy and tried to live in a world of classical literature, John Locke, and Chicago-style citations. This time I didn’t wake to train tracks or ant bites, but to family, to friends and to nurses.
Suicide and autoimmune diseases are both forms of self-destruction. The former means that a person deliberately takes their own life; the latter is when a person’s immune system decides to attack its own body. Three times have I attempted self-destruction. The first two times I chose to get drunk and pass out, dreaming to never wake up. The third time, however, I chose to stop managing my autoimmune disease. I wouldn’t say I wanted to kill myself, but that logic sure does sound like I was trying.
My ghost might have been there in that hospital room, ready for my questions, but I didn’t need to ask what the hell happened or where the hell am i Instead, I listened the machines and monitors beeping and buzzing all around me. I touched the bruises from failed IV insertions that looked like budding roses on my arms. I felt the flimsy little hospital gown that hid my devastated, vulnerable and naked body. I heard the IV’s pumping insulin, antibiotics and saline solution into me. I tasted my throat that had been choked and violated by intubation. I smelt the dried, rusty blood in my nostrils. I looked at the paper wrist bands that had my name and date of birth.
Everything around me told me you dreamt of the future you wanted to wake up again and you hoped your friends and family wouldnt have to listen to silver taps but you arent dying anymore youre done with trains and youre done with death
a young writer from the lone star state 