Not My Time

Anyone who has taken the time to look over the sleeve on my right arm would probably come to the conclusion that I’m obsessed with Death. I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed though...Death and I just have a very intricate and complicated relationship. The first death I ever experienced was my mother’s. I was four years old and to this day the thing that I remember the most is seeing a grown man cry for the first time. I was four, I had no concept of Death or that it meant I would never see her again. Now before you go getting all sympathetic on me, I’ll say again: I was FOUR. Save the sympathy for people who are unfortunate enough to lose their parents when it’s the hardest, like when they’re teenagers or young adults and could use the guidance. I was a young teenager the first time I considered Death as a friend, an option. I spent days in my room behind a closed door crying over things teens cry about, like boys and getting made fun of for my glasses and acne. But I also agonized over the fact that I was a living, breathing human with a fully functioning body and limbs yet somehow that still wasn’t enough for me.

I thought I would grow out of it. I figured most teenagers probably felt the same way and once I hit 18-20 it would magically disappear. I was wrong.

I joined the Army straight out of high school and ended up as a military mechanic by 18. I landed myself in a (looking back) pretty miserable and unbalanced relationship that I gave my all and got nothing in return. Meanwhile I began therapy thinking that I was the problem and knowing damn well that crying on a daily basis was NOT OKAY.

Flash forward a couple years, and I’m in Texas with my now ex husband. Life is good, I’m in school for my new job (still Army), and our relationship has somewhat hit even ground. And yet I still haven’t shaken that feeling that something just isn’t quite right. From the outside looking in I was content and happy, but on the inside I had become numb. I wasn’t happy, but I also wasn’t sad. I was just tired! Every chance I got I would rack out on my couch and slept as much as I could. Death became my best friend, and I would talk to him on a daily basis. Therapy continued, and the doses increased.

In spring of 2019, the temptation became too much. I was tired of just talking to Death, I wanted to feel his embrace and touch him with my own flesh. One day, while my husband was at work and I was home alone, I just snapped. I had never even made a plan for suicide but something or someone in me gathered all the prescription pills I could find from the house. Six bottles and a cup of water later, I fell asleep soundly on the couch, finally at peace.

I woke up with a tube down my throat, panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was gagging. Strangers hovered over my naked body that was covered only by a thin hospital blanket tucked gingerly around me. I was wide eyed and thinking, “This couldn’t be Death”.

I was in and out again, until I finally woke up for good. My chest hurt from where I would later find out my best friend Rachel had done CPR until the ambulance came. My throat was so sore I could barely talk above a whisper. A lot of people with a lot of rank came to visit that first day before I was hustled upstairs to the psych ward where I would pass time attending group counseling and coloring pictures with dull crayons.

Here we are many hugs, tears, and months later and I have to say I’ll forever be grateful for Rachel finding me when she did. That two week hospital stay didn’t “cure” me. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be cured. But as it turns out, the medication I had been on had some side effects for me that led to the constant numb and empty feeling. I changed medicine, continued seeing a therapist, and kept my friends so so close to me.

I still don’t feel “whole”, and have accepted that I may never feel that way. But I’ve found healthy ways to fill that void with the people who love and care about me, painting, running, my dogs, and WRITING.

I got my tattoo a few months after I got out of the hospital. I designed it myself with the grim reaper holding a broken clock with a confused look on his face. It’s a permanent reminder for me that sometimes Death gets it wrong. Sometimes we are blessed with a second chance and an opportunity to grow from our mistakes.

Death is no longer a friend of mine, but rather someone I have grown to understand and accept. I currently work as a respiratory therapist and do my best to keep Death at bay from my patients. Giving myself a purpose and doing something that I believe makes an impact helping people who can’t help themselves has given me a lot of strength. Seeing people fight for their lives has made me all the more grateful for mine, and it’s the constant reminder I need to realize it’s NOT MY TIME.