The Impossible

"What fufils you?"

Asking that to someone who has suffered from depression for about fourteen years, is intense. But if I’m being honest, there is quite a lot that speaks to my soul, that makes me feel like a whole person again. I’m not going to instantly say why anyone should support me, you don’t know me, but let me give you a glimpse into my life, and relive these endless years. I just turned twenty, and fourteen years ago, I should’ve died. I should have, but I didn’t. I was just six years old, I remember being told this story countless times – I had been sick and out of school for about a week, my mother had just dropped off my older sister, and I was sitting in the back, we were just driving home when I asked, “Am I going to die”?

A little early for an existential crisis, I know. My mother looked at me troubled through the rearview mirror. “What do you mean”? She asked, “Of course you're not going to die”. I then told her how I had a dream the other night, that an angel came to me and told me I was going to die, said I had five days left. Well, funnily enough, around five days later it happened. The night before was just another night, we were celebrating the 100th or something birthday of my favourite little dog toy and as a family watched “Bridge to Terabithia”. To this day, my mother and sister can’t bring themselves to watch it again. The next night, my parents were making dinner in the kitchen, my sister was up in her room and I was downstairs watching TV. Everything was fine, that was until I suddenly screamed “Help me! “ before going into a seizure.

My parents were quick to act, my mother ran downstairs to me, instantly trying to grab my tongue before I could swallow it. My dad started shouting at my thirteen-year-old sister to call an ambulance. Two ambulances arrived and I was taken to the local hospital. My mother and I left together, whilst my dad took my sister to a friend's before he drove to the hospital to join us. My mother has told me this story a few times before, but each time I can’t help but imagine the amount of fear she must have felt. We had only been there for a while, we were in a small private room, the lights dim. She sat next to me whilst I sat on the hospital bed.

I looked to the left. Then to the right, and then stared right at her. I can only imagine how long that moment felt before I screamed and went into another seizure – this time worse than before. Terrified, my mother yelled for help, and nurses ran in. I remember how she described how I looked after. Blue, cold and small. So small. Before anyone knew it, I was transferred to Westmead Children’s hospital. Within a few hours of being there, I had the top of my skull removed. This procedure wasn’t signed for, but without it I wouldn’t be where I am right now. I was diagnosed with Mycoplasma Pneumoniae. This illness attacked my brain, and I was put into a coma. I was in a coma for three weeks, and no one knew if I was going to wake up. But then one day, I coughed, choking on the tube that was plunged down my throat.

And then a test was done, a simple test, but one which proved the impossible. I was blind and mute. I could hardly move, but I could hear. A doctor by the name of Richard Webster put a finger in the palm of my hand, and said, “If you can hear me, squeeze my finger”. My hand wrapped around his finger, and then he asked me to do it again. I was in that hospital for three months after that. I can’t remember a lot, but I do recall small glimpses, like staring at my mum whilst I was in an MRI, waking up from surgery, and sitting outside on the balcony watching all of the other kids play whilst I was stuck inside for two months. I managed to survive something I shouldn’t have, and to this day, doctors can’t explain how. I came out essentially unscathed.

And no one knows why. I shouldn’t be able to walk, talk or even be alive right now, but I am. I’ve thought back many a time, wishing I had died back in that hospital, but I didn’t. I don’t know what my purpose is yet, but all I know is that I have this overwhelming need to care. For seven years now, I have been working on this story, and I hope that one day, when it gets published that I can help people who are struggling.

I’ve been through thick and thin, and despite all that, all I want is to tell a story. One that takes readers away into another world, because I used books to escape so many times, and without them, I wouldn’t be where I am right now. If my books become anything, I want to help raise awareness for mental illness, and I want to raise money for the hospital that saved my life. So many people have died due to Mycoplasma, it’s hard to diagnose and I got lucky. Others are not. I want to make a charity to look more into this illness and save people and children who were my age, from a fate they don’t deserve.

I am depressed. I’ve been medicated for years, I’ve seen the darkest days, but I am still here. I don’t know what my purpose is yet, but all I do know is that anyone can survive through the abyssal depths and come out of it, thankful and stronger than ever before. So you asked what fulfils me. And this is it. I survied for a reason, and I want desperately more than anything to help others survive as well. And yes, that might be through a fictional book series, but these books, this story I have to tell has been with me since the beginning. I want to show people that there is hope, and as cheesy as this sounds – that anyone can achieve the impossible. It might seem dumb, but this is my drive, and it is what fulfils me.

[please note: this is an edited version, I submitted it a few hours ago, and realised some minor errors - this is the final version :)]