Bright Light

You want me to tell you about me? You want me to give you my super sad sob story? A litany of tragic events that led me here, as if you’re going to catch some miniscule detail that none of the others have caught? You could just read the DSM-5 to get the gist. I've got it ALL. My medical record, if printed, would make War and Peace look like a theme park brochure. But, sure, why not- I’ve recited it so much, I’m working on setting it to music. Want me to sing it to you?

Twenty-three. There are twenty-three psychological diagnoses listed in my record as of today. They range from ADHD to agoraphobia to borderline personality disorder with smatterings of PTSD and schizophrenia woven in there just to keep things interesting. I cry constantly- sometimes I know why, sometimes I don’t. I live in low-income housing that I hate, but the thought of leaving my apartment scares the hell out of me. I often hear voices telling me to go outside or do other random things, and I know they’re trying to trick me. They call me horrible names and insult me when I refuse. Strangers are just terrifying. I’ve never been good at anything, and I have absolutely nothing to offer anyone, so I live my life constantly feeling like a total burden to humanity. If someone has the gall to claim to love me, I instantly assume they either pity me or want something from me. I’m afraid of being awake, I’m afraid of being asleep, I’m afraid of not getting enough sleep, and I’m afraid I’ll sleep too much. I’m a recovering crack, coke, and heroin addict. I have vivid memories of people doing unspeakable things to my body when I was a child- memories that I can’t “unremember” no matter how desperately I want to. My relationship with my mother is tenuous at best- all my fault if you ask her. I don’t know who my dad is. What’s the diagnosis code for “daddy issues?”

But that’s just my mental health record. Physically, I’d be hard-pressed to even explain how I’m sitting here talking to you right now. I really should be dead. I used to wish I was.

I’m a disaster. I'm 37. I have sarcoidosis and all the associated complications that come with that. I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out, I can’t breathe, I’m legally blind in my left eye and can no longer drive. I’m in constant pain. I have asthma, but that might be due to cigarettes I can’t give up, and, until 436 days ago, a crack habit I miss so much, I’d sooner have given an arm than quit. Ever smoked crack? The only feeling you’ll ever feel that even comes close is in that moment when the rollercoaster you're on is just about to crest the top of the climb and you’re anticipating the big fall, but you feel that feeling for like ten minutes or so. Not the fall itself- that’s heroin. I’ve danced with that hideous mistress often enough to add “opioid dependence” to my catalog of ICD-10 codes and score a weekly prescription for Suboxone, provided I consistently attend group therapy sessions, and my urine is free of illicit substances. I’ve suffered a traumatic brain injury resulting in several brain surgeries that "worked" to varying degrees. I have sleep apnea and have to attach a CPAP machine to my face before I go to sleep at night. How is it even possible for a person’s body to just… forget to breathe? It freaks my boyfriend out, I’ll tell you that. Before he came along, my cat would jump on my chest to wake me up, and she seemed to do it like it was just part of her job. I wonder if she feels displaced now that I have the CPAP? My bones are brittle from a lack of good nutrition, my teeth are rotten and I can't afford to fix them, I have a perforated septum from snorting coke, and I’m overweight. I’m sure there’s more, but I’m already on the brink of an anxiety attack thinking about it all.

Which reminds me, I’m out of Ativan. To get a refill, I’ll have to venture outside and walk to the pharmacy. That’s going to take a whole day of psyching myself out of a paralyzing panic attack to get done. I like the staff at the pharmacy though, so that helps. They’re a strictly mental and behavioral health pharmacy, so they deal with “crazy” to some degree all day every day. I get the impression I’m not even their craziest patient. Really sweet ladies though- Addie and Kelly are their names, I think. Actually, I doubt I’d even be here if it hadn’t been for a random card they sent me once. Hold on- I keep it with me- I’ll show you.

It says, “Just a quick note to let you know how happy we are that we’ve gotten to know you and we’re SO proud of how far you’ve come. You’re a bright light and we are VERY happy you’re here. Keep shining!”

Awesome, right? I got that card in the mail the last time I planned to kill myself. One of the items on my list of things to do before I died was to check the mail and make sure there weren’t any unpaid bills laying around. This card was the only thing in my mailbox. I considered it a sign of some sort, but it’s also the first time someone has said something nice to me for absolutely no reason, and it occurred to me that maybe I really am okay. I keep it with me as a reminder and it’s gotten me through some really rough times. I haven’t felt suicidal since that day four years ago. “Bright light.” She didn’t even know what I was going through and she might not know still, but her words pulled me up out of the dark, and I’m still here because I know she meant them.