Iver Arnegard has published nonfiction, fiction, and poetry in the North American Review, River Teeth, the Missouri Review, and elsewhere. His book, Whip & Spur, was published by Gold Line Press after winning their fiction contest. He currently lives in a remote cabin and teaches Creative Writing at the University of Alaska Mat-Su campus.
Swimming With Aurora
Everyone just wants to be understood.
And you can't understand someone without listening, which a lot of people never
do. Or they pretend to while they wait for their turn to talk. For twenty years I've hitched
all over North America, from Alaska to New Mexico—most states and provinces in
between. I’ve learned a lot in that time and it’s turned me into a listener.
When hitch-hiking there are certain rules to follow:
Always make eye contact, for one thing. And always smile. Not a huge shit-eating
grin like you just swallowed a bottle of crazy pills. But a normal smile. You know what I
mean.
Always keep moving. Not so much for the psychology of it—a hiker looks less
destitute or unpredictable than someone standing still or stuck somewhere—but because
it’s nice to walk. Good exercise. And far less mundane than standing in the same spot.
Always have everything you need with you. Tent, sleeping bag, food. I've had
drivers tell me that's why they picked me up. The fact that I'm a backpacker somehow
makes me less likely to be a serial killer, I guess. Once I was stranded at a gas station
with a heavy duffel bag. I couldn’t carry it on my back or keep moving. And it took
forever to get a ride. All day. The longest I've ever had to wait.
Stranded equals desperate which could also equal dangerous.
There are other rules, I’m sure. Ones I’m forgetting now or don’t even
consciously follow myself. But, really, at the end of the day, hitch-hiking is mostly about
listening. And that’s why people pick me up. Whether they realize it or not, they just
want someone to talk to. Someone to listen. And maybe even understand them. I’ve been
in cars and trucks with drivers as long as ten hours before and often times they never
even ask where I’m from or what I do for a living. Or anything about me. And it’s not
that they’re that self-absorbed. Necessarily. Though sometimes they are. But it’s usually
that they just want to be heard.
My average wait in a place like Alaska is probably twenty to thirty minutes.
Rarely longer. (Although when I'm on a remote highway like the Dalton it might take as
long as three or four hours. But I just keep moving. It doesn’t bother me to walk
indefinitely in a beautiful place.) I've talked to hitch-hikers who've been stranded all day,
sometimes for days on end, and I can't understand it. I'm guessing they don't smile.
Maybe they don't even face oncoming traffic or bother to make eye contact. Maybe they
look pissed off or have no backpack.
Or they're just not as lucky as me.
I've had hundreds of rides over the last two decades. Maybe a thousand at this
point. And I have never really felt threatened. Only been weirded out two or three times.
Otherwise, my drivers have all been incredibly kind, generous, and interesting people.
Some of whom I’m still in touch with.
Each one’s different. The people who pick me up hitching. But they all fall into
five categories:
One: The Good Samaritan. Who see it as his or her duty, or privilege, to help
anyone in need. They’re amazing people. And usually really interesting to talk to. At
times, Good Samaritans have tried to convert me to their religion. Other times they don’t
push an agenda at all.
Two. Teenagers looking for drugs. It usually takes them a while to get the guts to
come out and ask me for some. And it’s always the same. Since I never have any I tell
them, No. But good luck.
Three—Braggarts. Guys who see it as a badge of courage to pick up a hitch-hiker.
They might be going to meet friends somewhere. And showing up with a hitch-hiker
makes them look cool. Or so they think. One guy was talking to his girlfriend on his cell
phone when he picked me up. He kept right on talking to her, even after I got in his truck.
Telling her I seemed dangerous. Which is hilarious. I could hear her on the other line
worrying over him. Saying he should be careful and come home to her immediately.
Category four? Other hitch-hikers. People who have been there themselves. And
know what it’s like to stick their thumbs out on the side of a road. They’re usually the
best kind of ride. And luckily one of the largest fractions, or demographics, of drivers I
encounter. They’re the most comfortable rides I get. And usually the most authentic kind
of people I meet.
And finally, the lonely ones...
The fifth category. Those who might be at the end of their ropes and don’t care at
all about the risks of picking up hitch-hikers. The same drivers who have told me of their
incurable, terminal illnesses. Their children who have died. The great loves they’ve lost.
And what I’ve learned is the best thing I can do is to just listen. Which applies to every
kind of driver who picks me up. But mostly this final category. The kinds of people who
are usually completely alone in the world and have no one to listen to them. I feel good
about these sorts of rides. Like I’m actually helping them out as much, if not more, than
they’re helping me. To be heard. And understood. It’s all I really want, too. And it would
only take one person.
Twenty years. Wow. Lots of rides. Lots of stories.
There was the gold-panner. Outside Whitehorse. Who steered his rusty Chevy to
the side of the Alcan at dawn and handed me a bottle of whiskey before I could even say,
Thanks for stopping.
The empty tour bus dead-heading back to Skagway. Just me and the driver
swapping stories all night. Under a sky swimming with aurora. Shimmering with greens,
reds, and purples dancing above the Mentasta Mountains.
And Leroy. The Athabaskan man who picked me up in Paxson and drove me all
the way to the turn off to Manley.
“Thanks for the ride. Just hiked out of those mountains.”
“Some people,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin as he glanced back at
the peaks. “Dey get loss der.”
I paused and nodded. “Where are you headed?” I said.
“Minto. To fish camp. Whole family coming this year. Gonna we have big fun.”
We stopped in every village along the way so Leroy could say hi to one cousin or
another. An aunt or uncle. Finally, north of Livengood, he pulled over to the side of the
road.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Welcome.”
I yanked up on the old, rusted handle and nudged the door open with my shoulder.
“Your language,” he said to me in English as I stepped out of his truck. “Is it hard
to speak?”
Middle of August now and northern latitudes are tilting away from the sun. Back
toward the long night of an Alaskan winter. There’s still a full month before the equinox
but for the first time I’m actually using my headlamp after midnight. It's not just dusk.
Not an extended twilight. But real darkness. Even if only for a couple of hours. Still, it's
noticeable. Palpable. But it also means the northern lights will be more and more visible
again. I’ve already seen them once, a week ago. Outside my tent just north of Hope.
Somewhere above tree line on Resurrection Trail.
And now here I am, on the side of the Parks Highway, hitching north to
Talkeetna. Passed the Turnagain Arm, the Chugach Mountains, and Palmer Hay Flats. I
wonder who will pick me up today. Someone who wants to be heard, I’m sure. Whether
they realize it or not.
It’s true. Everyone just wants to be understood. I do, too. One person. And that
would be the end of the line. Just one. Who says, I hear you. I’m listening.
M. Rohr enjoys getting free therapy by writing about the difficult stuff. She hopes sincerity and honesty helps others feel not-so-alone. She lives along the Rocky Mountains, where she works from home while trying to prevent her toddlers from destroying everything
The Good Girl's Chemical High
Christmas. Age 19.
The smiles seemed a little forced when I entered my aunt’s house.
Christmas breakfast was going to be the first time my mother and I had been in the same
room with each other since I ran away six months earlier.
Well, according to my mother I ran away.
In my version of events, that fateful day started with my mom warning me that we were
going to have a ‘chat’ when she got home from work. I sat down and sobbed after she left,
knowing what that conversation would entail. The prospect of waiting all day to listen to her
unleash on me for everything she thought I was doing wrong felt unbearable.
In the midst of my breakdown, I realized I didn’t actually have to be there when she got
home. I was eighteen. I’d graduated high school just a few days earlier. I had a job. I might have
to live in my car, but that seemed phenomenally better than waiting around for another tirade on
my failings.
I packed everything I could fit, stayed long enough to tell her when she got home, and
left. Fortunately, I was spared from living in my car by an acquaintance from school who was
moving in with her grandparents that summer. They had plenty of room and quickly became a
second family to me.
When Christmas came around six months later, my family called to invite me. I knew my
mom would be there and seeing her would be unpleasant. I wanted to believe my family wanted
me there, even if my mom didn’t. So, I went.
At the table, I made small talk about my first semester of college with the person sitting
next to me while my mom sat at the far end of the table speaking graciously and politely with
everyone but me.
An uncle said to me, “You should apologize to your mom.”
“Thanks,” I said. Because I’d tried to explain to him for years what life was like at home
and this was where that conversation went every time.
During clean up, my mom and my aunt lowered their voices to speak privately. I caught
snippets as I helped pass dishes to the kitchen. My mom was clearly venting about all the years
she’d worked two and sometimes three jobs to give me a good life, only to have me run away in
a fit of ‘teenage selfishness.’
I headed to the bathroom. Alone behind the locked door, I pulled out the Oreos I’d
brought for just such a moment. I sat on the floor, the familiar anticipation settling over me as I
took my first bite. As the first cookie hit my taste buds, a wave of relief swept over me.
Five minutes and a half-dozen cookies later, I cleaned up and returned to the family.
Reinforced and fortified, I stayed for two more hours.
In the rounds of well-wishes before leaving, my aunt gave me a hug and whispered,
“Please be kind to your mom. She loves you.”
Two blocks from my aunt’s house, I pulled my car over and retrieved donuts from the
trunk. Then I leaned my seat back and released the tears I’d been holding as the first bites of
sugary fried dough melted in my mouth with a satisfaction that made me want to close my eyes
and sigh.
As I finished the first donut, the crying eased. By the end of the second, I was mostly
calm. Licking the last of the third from my fingers, I wondered what it would be like to be happy.
I ate a fourth to cheer me up.
Then, finally, the Christmas party now a distant memory, I turned the car on and started
back to the home of the family I lived with, contemplating which donut to reward myself with
when I got there.
***
When my descent into addiction began, I had no access to cigarettes or hard drugs,
alcohol in my home was closely monitored and I didn’t know anyone who would buy it for me.
Any adult in my life would have noticed the smells or behaviors associated with cannabis or
opiates. Such things—fortunately—weren’t options.
Food, however...
Food was the perfect drug: available, socially acceptable, delicious, and the side effects
of over-indulgence could be hidden with ease.
And, of course, it was universally available in my home growing up. Even more so as a
young adult with a car, a job, and all the freedoms those gave me.
It began with shocking innocence: I was ten when my parents separated and I discovered
eating and watching TV made me not so sad.
By high school, store-bought cookies and other hyperpalatable sweets were my go-to
after my mom yelled at me or I felt I’d disappointed her.
By college, I’d catch myself sneaking a fifth piece of cake into my bedroom so I could
eat alone. Knowing ‘normal’ people didn’t eat five pieces of cake, I’d convince myself to throw
it out. Then I’d pace, fidget, go a little crazy in the midst of the mental insanity of a craving that I
didn’t understand or have the skills to cope with, then go back to retrieve the food from the trash
because my brain and body were so much calmer if I just ate it.
What started as mild self-soothing in my early teens eventually became my only method
of self-care. By high school, my solution to anything that upset me became food. Not just eating
a meal, but overindulgence on hyperpalatable, sugary foods until I was too ill to move.
Satiety does not apply to food addiction. A food addict loses all sense of hunger and
satisfaction. We eat when we need a high, not when we are hungry.
We have a lot in common with smokers, alcoholics, and drug addicts: our drug of choice
soothes and distracts from problematic emotions we don’t know how to deal with.
Consuming an entire package of Oreos in one sitting does wonders to anesthetize guilt,
anger, and stress.
I haven’t tried opiates, but I’ve heard they do the same.
***
I’ve lost jobs because I caved to a craving an hour before my shift and ended up eating
uncontrollably for several hours, too ashamed to call in sick.
I failed college classes because I sat in my car watching others walk to class sipping their
coffee or breakfast smoothie while I downed a clearance bakery cake.
But I wasn’t obese. I didn’t have diabetes. To all who cared to look, I appeared perfectly
normal.
And though I didn’t feel ‘normal,’ I also didn’t perceive the danger I was in.
Food was necessary, after all. Trying to decline cake or ice cream at family or other
social functions attracted protests and offense.
And the high was nice.
That fleeting, temporary, utterly satisfying glimpse of physical bliss that relaxed and
calmed and made me feel safe and comfortable and happy...
It was an elusive, glorious thing.
And convenient.
I could get high on Thanksgiving, in a house full of people, simply by making an “I-
shouldn’t-but-it’s-only-for-today” face and filling another bowl full of brownies or ice cream.
And I didn’t regret it. There was nothing in my life that made it so easy to face my
mother’s displeasure than eating until I was first high and then extremely sick.
The only problem was that some of the time, I didn’t want to eat so much.
Sometimes I ate long past self-soothing, spiraling down into a miserable and lasting
discomfort accompanied by self-loathing and disgust.
The high didn’t feel worth it, afterwards. And on increasingly frequent days, I couldn’t
seem to stop.
I could put food down, but I’d be so agitated and upset when I walked away, that it was
only a matter of time until I returned with renewed frenzy to finish off the sugary substance I’d
walked away from.
It’s a special kind of hell to watch yourself doing something that hurts you and not be
able to stop it.
***
As the binge eating became increasingly frequent and uncontrollable, I researched diets
and self-help programs.
As I tried and failed in those endeavors, I inevitably ate more. It was easier to not try to
stop overeating because failing provoked self-loathing that led to eating in order to anesthetize
the self-hatred, which led to guilt and shame, which led to more binging.
After one particularly ugly day of uncontrollable eating, I tried purging. There, kneeling
in front of the toilet, trying to force myself to vomit, I had my epiphany moment: I am not okay.
I checked out books about eating disorders, assuming that was what was wrong. But I
wasn’t purging routinely, as is typical of bulimia. I wasn’t anorexic. I also didn’t have a struggle
with body image, as the texts seemed to suggest was a fundamental symptom in both disorders.
One symptom did apply: abusing or restricting food in relation to emotional distress,
which, the texts suggested, might be treated with counseling.
The first counselor told me that every day after work he got one of his favorite chocolates
from the cabinet above the fridge and ate it while he looked at his garden. He suggested that food
routines, such as this, could be extremely helpful for people with eating disorders. So I went
home and made my favorite cookies, planning to eat one every day. Then I fidgeted and paced,
eventually dissolving into hysterical crying, unable to think of anything except how much I
needed those cookies.
The next thing I knew I was in my room, alone, sitting on the floor scarfing down two at
a time. I had no memory of retrieving the cookie dish. And I was furious someone had suggested
I limit my ingestion of such sweet, lovely, happy cookies.
The second counselor gave me a copy of Intuitive Eating and explained that sometimes
people place so many restrictions on food that they need to release all of those restrictions in
order to start the healing process.
I tried that, too. I ate everything and anything. No guilt trips. No arguments. No internal
battles. I gained thirty pounds in three months and lost my job because I was so physically ill all
the time I couldn’t get to work.
When the uncontrollable urges to eat didn’t ease, I found a third counselor. After six
weeks, she told me I seemed to be doing very well, and perhaps I should only come see her once
a month.
I didn’t tell her I couldn’t hardly stand up because I was in so much pain after my most
recent binge. Instead, I smiled, thanked her for her help, and never went back to see her again.
The continued failures to achieve any success through counseling left me with the lasting
impression that I was too broken for mental health experts. If I couldn't fix me and professionals
couldn't fix me, it seemed obvious nothing else could fix me, either.
***
In my mid-twenties, I went to the last friend I had left: an adult child in my second
family. I’d lost touch with any friends I’d made in school, either high school or college, because
I was so humiliated and disturbed by the increasing frequency of the binge eating.
I told that one friend I thought I had an eating disorder.
The next day, he gave me a hefty stack of literature on prayer and God’s power to heal.
I read it.
Then, as some Christians do, I added fasting to my prayer practice.
I lost twenty pounds in two months of fasting before I gave up and started eating again,
this time with a renewed vigor I hadn’t thought possible.
The friend I’d told about the eating disorder told his family what I’d said.
I overheard them talking about me.
One of them said, “I wish I could tell her she’s better than this, to just get over it.”
In hindsight, I realize that with great familial love, a person who cared dearly for me was
venting frustration that something so seemingly simple might be handicapping my happiness and
potential.
At the time, the hurt felt irreparable and I started packing to move out.
Self-help books frequently share stories of people whose bad habits stopped being a
problem once they moved or changed jobs or took a long vacation. I hoped moving would be that
solution for me.
It wasn’t.
I quickly discovered that renting a room in a house of college girls meant I didn’t have
the same need to hide my uncontrollable eating as I’d had while living with my second family. In
the new place, no one noticed if I took a pizza and three milkshakes to my room. If they did, they
didn’t care.
That was fine with me. Liberating, actually.
I could get high any time I wanted.
And I did.
***
A year after moving away from my second family, I spent an entire week in my room
eating, not leaving except to get more edible substances and use the bathroom.
Sick and disgusted and at a loss, I looked around for anything or anyone else who might
help. I found nothing. I didn’t talk to co-workers outside of work and didn’t feel a close
connection with any of them. I knew names of people in my college classes but had no
interaction with them outside of the classroom. At church, I arrived late and left early in order to
avoid exposing my shameful secret in any way. The hurt I’d felt after the reactions by my second
family still stung bitterly. In my mind, counseling had been tried and proved useless.
In desperation, I went to the last person in the world who—in my mind—might have an
interest in my well-being and obligation to help save me from my hell.
“I think I have an eating disorder,” I said.
My mother frowned. “What makes you think you have an eating disorder?”
The emphasis on the word “think” bothered me.
Before I could get past that, she said, “You don’t need to look like women on TV, you
know. That’s not normal or healthy.”
It seemed so obvious to me that this had nothing—nothing—to do with the stereotypical
misunderstandings of anorexia and bulimia that I had no response. I hadn’t considered how I
would describe the problem. I wasn’t going to tell anyone that sometimes I came to after a binge
only to find myself lying on my bedroom floor next to empty food packages having no memory
of eating them.
I was so ashamed of it that I couldn’t describe the symptoms. Couldn’t even begin to
formulate a sentence that would describe my hell.
“How’s school?” my mom asked, changing the subject to bring our dinner conversation
back to something more ‘normal.’
Grateful for the change of topic, I told her about my classes and then spun an acceptable
tale about the social events I’d attended.
I hadn’t actually gone to any social events. I’d get twitchy and agitated in any situation
involving food. Like the proverbial “little kid in a candy store” insanity but on steroids and laced
with the paranoid rapidity characteristic of a cocaine addict in need of a hit.
So instead of socializing, I sat in my bedroom, alone, and ate.
Well, not alone.
I had my food with me.
***
A recovering alcoholic once described alcohol as her soul mate. That’s exactly how I felt
about food.
In my mind, I’d tried every option I had: counseling, telling a friend and then my second
family, and, finally, trying to talk to my mom about it.
I stopped trying to fix whatever it was that was wrong with me and surrendered—utterly
and completely. Life became nothing more than a calculation between the previous binge and
how long it would be until I got my next one. There was no joy or happiness or laughter unless it
was with food. No sadness or sorrow unless it was a lack of food.
While my days spiraled into a roller coaster of emotion based on how long it had been
since my previous high and how long I had to wait until I could get my next, I got nearly straight
A’s and paid my way through college. I paid my own bills, went to church, helped elderly
neighbors, and made appropriate appearances at family events.
None of it meant anything.
It was like watching someone else live my life—the conversations I had, the people I
interacted with—all of it was someone else using my body to go through the necessary motions.
Meaning only existed when I ate.
My highs were my lovers and my friends.
When I was lonely, I found companionship in food. When I was sad, solace came only
from eating.
No one understood my misery—except food. No shared happiness with me—except
food.
Food calmed the madness, the guilt, the shame. It took away the pain.
Food didn’t judge me. Didn’t tell me I should be better. Didn’t tell me to stop trying to be
something I wasn’t. Food was kind, gentle, and understanding. Food didn’t hurt my feelings.
Food stayed with me when I felt lonely. Food was never too busy or distracted. Food gave me its
undivided attention. Food provided devoted affection.
It was, as that woman described, the perfect soul mate.
***
In church one day, a woman shared her experience overcoming an addiction to opiates.
At its worst, her life had been nothing but a calculation between how long since the last high and
how long until the next. Nothing else existed. She maintained a marriage, took care of three kids,
worked part time, participated in community service...all the while caring about absolutely
nothing except when she could take her next pill.
That was me.
The years of isolation shattered. I wasn’t having a mental breakdown. I wasn’t unfixable.
Eating disorder treatments hadn’t helped because I didn’t have an eating disorder.
I was an addict.
I found that woman after the service and started sobbing before I could even say hello.
She wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
***
Three days later, I drove nearly forty minutes from home to ensure no one recognized me
when I attended my first recovery meeting. The woman from church had invited me to her
meeting, but I’d declined. I didn’t even want to be in the same space as anyone familiar for this
first meeting.
A quick survey of the half dozen people in the semi-circle led me to sit between a small,
timid looking man probably in his early fifties, and a soccer mom in knee-length shorts sporting
light makeup and a ponytail.
The meeting started. The facilitators introduced themselves and explained the meeting
format and told me I could say “pass” if I didn’t want to participate.
The soccer mom to my left shared about a decade of shooting heroin into her veins
between her kids’ sports and music practices. Her husband didn’t know. Her family thought she
was meeting with a book club.
Next, the man to my right shared about nearly forty years fighting the addiction that
brought him recovery. Based on a few of his vague comments, I quickly realized I was sitting
next to a person who had, in the throes of sexual addiction, committed heinous crimes.
The facilitators asked me if I’d like to share.
Yeah right.
What would I say?
“Hi, I eat cookies.”
No f***ing way.
Those people had serious challenges. I just needed to stop eating so much.
I left the meeting promising myself I’d never overeat again.
That week was a brutal awakening as I paid attention, for the first time in years, to what
my daily life consisted of.
Every day that week, I woke up sick and miserable from the previous days’ binge and
knew that within hours I’d be watching myself eat until I was in physical and emotional agony. I
couldn’t stop it. I hated it. I hated myself. I hated every second I was alive.
“Dear God,” I thought, reciting the only prayer I had left, “please don’t make me live
another day.”
I bought ice cream on my way to the meeting the following week.
The next week, I did the same.
***
After nearly six months of sitting quietly in those recovery meetings, I overcame the
embarrassment of introducing myself to ‘real’ addicts.
“Would you like to share this week?” asked the woman leading the meeting.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m an addict. I...have an eating disorder.”
“Welcome,” the group said in unison, as is the 12-step custom.
No one laughed when I said eating disorder.
After the meeting, the facilitator told me her daughter had a similar struggle. It started
when her parents divorced and she began eating her feelings because she didn’t know how to
cope with them. The facilitator gave me her phone number and invited me to call so we could
chat one-on-one.
For the first time in years, the chasm between me and the outside world had been bridged.
Someone knew me. Knew what was wrong. Didn’t despise me because of it.
As we walked out, the facilitator told me the title of a book her daughter had found
helpful. “It was the best we found on food addiction,” she said.
Food addiction.
Finally—finally—my nightmare had a name.
I cried all the way home.
***
Food is sometimes referred to as a good girl’s chemical high. The name is not just apt,
but quite perfect.
Drugs weren’t available to me, but hyperpalatable foods, particularly sugary ones,
provided a sensory experience leading to a dopamine response which numbed difficult emotions.
The relief became a high. A cue-reward cycle began. I became dependent.
Part of the tragedy of the last twenty years is how different they might have been if I’d
latched on to alcohol or cigarettes or prescription painkillers instead of food. I can’t help but
assume my attempts to ask for help would have had very different outcomes.
With that in mind, I’ve worked hard to find the courage to share a little of my experience
with people in my church congregation, with ecclesiastical leaders, with twelve-step meetings,
and with friends who are parents.
“If you’re the kind of parent who talks to your kids about drugs,” I tell them, “then talk to
them about food, too.”
As with any compulsive substance or behavior, early awareness is key.
Several times, after speaking with groups about my experience with addiction and
recovery, someone has come up to me afterwards, crying so hard they can’t introduce themselves
or explain.
Like the woman so many years ago did for me, I hug them as tight as I possibly can, tell
them I understand, and ask if they’ll come to a meeting.
***
Christmas. Age 37.
My husband, kids, and I arrive as breakfast is set out. I make the rounds giving hugs, then
make my way to the kitchen where I find a small space for the crockpot I brought with a favorite
dish of mine. It’s a crockpot chocolate cake made with avocados, almond flour, and honey. Yes,
I’m planning to eat chocolate cake for Christmas breakfast. It’s sweet and I think of it as a treat,
but there’s nothing in it that is addictive to me.
I started preparing myself for this day almost two months ago. Around the middle of
October, I stopped anything that could be stopped: work projects, house projects, self-
improvement projects, homemaking projects. I emailed all the distant relatives, told them happy
holidays, then gave myself permission to not answer calls, emails, or texts until January.
We’ve been eating off disposable dishes for nearly a week to minimize kitchen clean-up.
I made freezer meals, too, so I wouldn’t have to cook for most of December. I purchased extra
linens and kids’ clothes from a thrift store so that we can simply toss the used stuff in the laundry
room and pull out clean ones. I’ll deal with it in January.
This is my self-care bubble.
Most importantly, any edible substance in my house that might possibly be problematic
for me over the holidays was either discarded or given away.
Over the course of Christmas morning, some in my extended family ask why I’m not
eating the toxic substances they’ve brought. I give vague but firm answers about dietary
preferences. I’ve practiced those responses in front of a mirror.
I sit as far away from the buffet as I can. I try not to look at it. I get agitated because I
know it’s there. I take long breaks in the bathroom—without edible substances—for deep
breathing and centering.
After two hours, I give my husband the signal that I can’t be here anymore.
When we get in the car, I close my eyes, and cry—whether from relief at success or
misery at leaving behind that buffet of sweet and intoxicating bliss, I’m not sure.
Right now, it doesn’t matter.
I did what I’d set out to do: my first Christmas sober in more than twenty years.
Angela Patera was born in 1986 in Athens, Greece. She is an ESL teacher and a mother. Having studied English Language and literature at the National University of Athens, she pursued a Master's Degree in Cultural Administration and Communication. Her main field of interest is the representations of womanhood, race, and disease in Culture (especially literature).
The Aftermath
On September 7, 1999, at 14:56:51 local time, a powerful earthquake measuring 6.0
on the Richter scale struck near Mount Parnitha in Athens, Greece. This seismic
catastrophe, occurring in dangerously close proximity to the Athens metropolitan
area, inflicted profound devastation. Over 100 buildings, among them three major
factories, succumbed to the violent tremors, trapping countless victims beneath their
ruins. Tragically, this unrelenting quake claimed 143 lives. One of them was my
brother, John.
That day had been truly exceptional, thus far. My mum, enjoying a rare day off from
work, had taken John and me shoe shopping. I bought a pair of sleek Nike Air
sneakers. My evening plans were set: a trip to the local cinema complex to watch
Armageddon with a friend. John’s mood remained persistently somber throughout the
day. He lamented about the perceived monotony of his life, burdened by the
impending start of his senior year in high school, endless homework, and a recent
breakup with his long-time girlfriend. When I invited him to join us for the movie, he
nonchalantly dismissed the idea. Standing tall and muscular, with dreadlocks reaching
halfway down his back and a face adorned with numerous piercings, he deemed
himself too cool to accompany two 13-year-olds to the local cinema complex for a
blockbuster movie night.
Mum wanted to pop to the supermarket so she swiftly took us home to resume our
quarrel. Once inside, John retreated to his bedroom while I sought refuge in my
parents’ bedroom. There, I settled on the bed, turned on the TV, and chanced upon an
episode of Baywatch. I cranked up the volume and made myself comfortable. In the
background, John’s hardcore punk music blared through the bedroom walls, grating
on my nerves. I was about to storm into John’s room and give him an earful when I
suddenly heard a thunderous sound. Initially, I mistook it for an airplane crash nearby
but within seconds, the earth trembled, swaying and shaking our home. The deafening
crash of shattering glass and the sensation of being showered with countless shards
overwhelmed me. Panic coursed through my veins as blood started gushing out of
everywhere. I darted under my mother’s vanity, yet, in an instant, John’s protective
arms embraced me, shielding us from the chaos that had descended upon our lives.
In mere seconds, my brother’s strong hand yanked me from under the vanity, guiding
me out of our third-floor apartment. Bloodied and barefoot, I looked around the
familiar place I had called home my entire life, now an unrecognizable nightmare.
The whole apartment complex resembled a war zone. As we neared the building’s
exit, a sudden, searing pain shot through me and I let out a cry. I had inadvertently
stepped on a sharp piece of metal and my food bled profusely. John’s face revealed a
mix of concern and frustration. “Oh for fuck’s sake, let me find you some shoes” he
muttered-his last words to me.
Moments after he disappeared from my sight, another thunderous roar shattered the
air, plunging me into a suffocating cloud of dust. When I managed to open my eyes, I
was met with a horrifying sight: an entire section of our apartment block had
collapsed. John was nowhere to be seen. I clawed my way out of the wreckage,
eventually reaching the front garden of the building. A thick coat of white dust,
mingled with fresh blood from hundreds of little wounds covered my body. My ears
rang, muffling all the sounds around me and each breath seared my lungs like fire.
Desperation welled up as I strained to respond to a distant call of my name. I opened
my mouth but my voice had abandoned me. Then, a gentle hand on my face stirred
me and a familiar voice reached my ears. It was my mother, her kind face streaked
with tears. I closed my eyes and began to drift away.
Three days later, I woke up on a hospital bed. I could see my mum nestled on a chair
by my side. My arms and legs lay shrouded in bandages, my attire reduced from the
Levi’s jeans I last remembered myself wearing to a white hospital gown. In that
instant, the memories of that harrowing day flooded back, dragging with them torrents
of heart-wrenching pain. Tears welled, yet my voice remained imprisoned, incapable
of articulating the anguish building up within me. My mum, sensing my unspoken
terror, pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek. As if she had read my thoughts, she
informed me I had suffered a concussion and I had drifted in and out of consciousness
for three days. Despite the terrifying ordeal, the doctors assured us that no permanent
brain damage had been inflicted. My body was cocooned in bandages because I had
had at least a hundred stitches. Astonishingly, all wounds were predominantly
superficial, the shards of glass sparing any major arteries. The rasping pain in my
throat was a lingering effect of the dust inhaled. A sliver of glass had lightly grazed
the retina of my eye but it wouldn’t leave a scar and it wouldn’t impair my vision.
They had to cut me out of my Levi’s jeans but I was not to worry, dad had already
procured a fresh pair of Levi’s jeans for me. Amidst the ruins of our home, dad had
managed to salvage some fragments of our life possessions: my spanking new Nike
Air sneakers, my Discman, some of my CDs, a handful of clothes, and a few treasured
books. And then, in a moment of profound sorrow, my mother softly uttered the
words I had been dreading to hear: “John is dead”. I shut my eyes and even though
my mind howled with agony, no sound escaped my lips.
A week later, I was discharged from the hospital. My mum, deeply concerned about
my persistent silence, insisted on a psychiatric evaluation but the turmoil wrought by
the disaster had stretched the mental health resources of the hospital. The doctors just
advised her to give me time. We were to stay at my aunt’s house temporarily where
an entire room awaited us, cleared with love and care. My parents, valiant in their
façade of normality, resumed their daily routines and engaged in the pursuit of a new
home for the three of us. They showered me with new clothes and hid their sorrow in
my presence, acting as if the calamity that had bestowed us was a mere setback, a part
of life’s winding road. In time, they secured a new apartment across town, far from
haunting reminders of our past. I enrolled in a new school, a stranger in an unfamiliar
environment, beginning the eighth grade with the moniker “Scarface” due to the tiny
little scars that marred my face and body. Those taunts held absolutely no power over
me, for the true agony lay in me being alive while John was dead.
My parents maintained a heavy silence regarding the events, but I managed to piece
together the missing fragments of my story through hushed exchanges between my
uncle and aunt. Our towering apartment building had collapsed in the aftermath of the
earthquake. Barefoot, bloodied, and bewildered, I had mysteriously emerged in the
front garden. The disaster had claimed the lives of fifteen of our neighbours. John
had been found beneath a heavy wooden door on the second floor, clinging to life by
a thread. Extensive brain damage had rendered him brain-dead upon reaching the
hospital. In that agonizing moment, my parents displayed unimaginable courage by
choosing to donate John’s unharmed organs. His heart now beat in the chest of a
young man in northern Greece, while his kidneys granted a new lease on life to a
young woman in Italy. The prevailing assumption was that I had managed to escape
first and John had followed, only to get trapped on the second floor. No one suspected
the heart-breaking truth: he had ascended those perilous stairs to retrieve my shoes.
No one suspected that I was responsible for his death.
In our new reality, my rehabilitation became my parents’ sole focus. A parade of
specialists, from psychiatrists and neurologists to speech therapists and
ophthalmologists, became a fixture in my life. My body underwent a series of tests,
from brain scans to chest X-rays, all yielding the same conclusion: I was perfectly
healthy, save for my persistent silence. I could write, see clearly, play the piano and
read. I just wouldn’t talk. The diagnosis was “psychogenic mutism”. They attributed
this silence to a mix of PTSD and the crushing weight of grief for my departed
brother. The path to recovery involved Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, coupled with
a modest dose of Zoloft, in an attempt to restructure my thoughts and rewire my brain.
Armed with a small notebook, I communicated through writing, as my parents
decided against the Zoloft prescription. The group of psychologists overseeing my
recovery assigned ample homework, which included the task of discovering a new
hobby and documenting my daily thoughts. What thoughts could I possibly harbor? I
grappled with a solitary thought that consumed my every waking moment; the
relentless, agonizing belief that I bore responsibility for John’s tragic death.
I followed their advice, embarking on a seemingly pointless journey to silence the
tumult within my mind. Seeking solace in the local swimming pool, I discovered that
the rhythmic strokes in the cool waters offered a momentary respite from the chaos of
my thoughts. Schoolwork became my anchor and the piano my sanctuary. Managing
the daytime hours was bearable but the nights proved to be a different battleground.
Sleep continually eluded me; I kept on tossing and turning, drifting off briefly only to
awaken heaving with anxiety. Thus, I started venturing outside for long walks. Living
near the beach, I strolled along the promenade, headphones in my ears, sometimes
losing myself for hours, other times standing still and gazing upon the waves crashing
against the cliffs. One recurring thought beckoned me- the idea of taking a leap into
the icy water and surrendering to the currents. One night, in my quest to conquer my
mutism, I summoned the courage to walk to the local kiosk and request a pack of
cigarettes. Surprisingly, it worked. I found my voice.
Simultaneously, John’s presence rekindled within our home. Pictures of him adorned
our walls and graced my mother’s bedside table. Amid the rubble of our shattered
household, my father had painstakingly salvaged relics connecting us to our past:
valuable documents, clothing, books, and, most importantly, our childhood photo
albums. My parents and I would often leaf through our childhood albums, yearning
for our earliest moments to remain unblemished by the confabulatory power of
memory. I spent hours studying John’s pictures, determined not to forget a single
detail: his freckled forehead, fair eyelashes, baby blue eyes, and the dimples that
embellished his cheeks every time he smiled. Over time, I realized I couldn’t evade
John; he was everywhere, lingering in every corner of my life. Anything could trigger
his memory and unleash torrents of pain and guilt through my entire being.
Desperate for an escape, I sought an unlikely refuge in a classmate named Bill, one of
the school’s most notorious dealers. I approached him one day and politely requested
some weed, an odd plea coming from a quiet, bookish wallflower like me. He initially
looked horrified but, after a lengthy conversation trying to discourage me from
venturing into that path, he finally relented. Bill agreed to meet me after school,
provide me with some weed, and teach me how to roll joints. Being a diligent student,
I quickly became his most loyal and steadfast customer.
Despite my notable accomplishments in diverse domains - winning swimming
championships, enchanting with piano virtuosity, and upholding an outstanding
academic record- a fundamental issue persisted. Four years had transpired since
John’s passing and my insomnia persisted unyielding, impervious even to the solace
of weed. Each time I drifted into slumber, my sleep was marred by haunting
nightmares. The toll of my insomnia was evident in my emaciated appearance; I had
shed so many pounds that I looked gaunt and sickly. My complexion was drained of
life and warmth and my hair hung lifelessly. I was susceptible to colds and mysterious
aches and pains. Initially, my therapists attributed these symptoms to my body
grappling with the trauma I had endured, deeming them psychosomatic. However, as
the symptoms persisted, they referred me to a sleep specialist. Eagerly, I anticipated
my appointment, yearning for a remedy that would help me reclaim the innocence of
my childhood slumber. To my sheer disappointment, following a consultation with
my mother who insisted on avoiding any sort of medication, the specialist prescribed
nothing more than a melatonin supplement.
Seeking guidance, I turned to my trusted dealer, Bill. Without hesitation, he provided
the remedy I sought, in the form of pills: Benzos for my melancholia and Trazodone
for my insomnia. Never did we delve into the details of precise dosages or potential
interactions so I decided to trust my instincts and take a tablet of each twice a day.
The precise source of my newfound relief remained a tantalizing enigma. Was it the
Xanax, the weed, the Desyrel, the unassuming melatonin supplement, or perhaps the
extended hours at the school library and the pool? I couldn’t pinpoint it but, finally, I
slept like a baby.
I slept day and night, at home, at school, on the bus, everywhere. Yet, this newfound
rest brought along a unique set of tribulations as I found myself in a perpetual state of
dizziness and disorientation that turned even simple tasks into formidable endeavors.
Unable to combat this sense of drowsiness, I turned to Bill for advice. He handed me
a tiny pillbox filled with Adderall and suggested taking two or three tablets before
important exams. I was familiar with Adderall so I couldn’t help but smile at the
connection. When John was eleven, he had been diagnosed with ADHD and had
sampled a parade of ineffective remedies. Strattera had caused him to shed so much
weight that he had become almost translucent. Ritalin had turned him into a jittery
wreck. Adderall had brought the desired stability. I think that this history of failed
remedies was what likely contributed to my mum’s distrust of drugs. As I smiled at
the little pillbox, I thought that at least for a fleeting moment in our “lifetimes”, John
and I had shared a common bond.
While Adderall did indeed aid my concentration, it surely exacerbated my nausea. I
spent at least an hour every day at the school infirmary, battling waves of sickness and
exhaustion. My parents, suspecting something more sinister, forced me to take a
pregnancy test in their presence. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the sheer
absurdity of the idea as sex had clearly been the last thing on my mind. Even if I had
entertained such desires, there were no willing partners; I remained a solitary figure,
an outcast, teetering on the brink of paranoia. After a stint as a selective mute, I hadn’t
improved much. Interaction with classmates was a rarity and my speech was reduced
to monosyllabic utterances. My sole company appeared to be my dealer, Bill whose
motives revolved solely around financial transactions.
Therefore, the notion of pregnancy, under these circumstances, appeared highly
improbable. What I did conceal, however, was a new kind of thought that had
germinated one morning while we were analyzing Anna Karenina in class: what if
there was another way to resolve my woes? What if I could quell the dissonance
within my thoughts once and for all? My parents had been through this before; they
would manage, just as they had with John. They were still relatively young, barely in
their early forties; they could even have a new baby and start afresh. I wouldn’t create
a maelstrom, sparing them from macabre trauma. It didn’t have to resemble Anna
Karenina’s fate; I would hate to throw myself under a train. We didn’t have a gas
stove, ruling out Sylvia Plath’s method and my swimming prowess made the idea of
putting stones in my pockets and walking into the water like Virginia Woolf, equally
implausible. Lost in my thoughts, I was abruptly snapped back to reality by my
teacher persistently calling my name. Roaring laughter swept through the classroom.
At that moment, a jolt of clarity struck me, and I was overcome with panic at the stark
realization of the darkness that had clouded my mind. How could I even consider
subjecting my parents to such pain after everything they had endured? How could I
entertain the thought of suicide?
During the school break, I hurried to the library and scoured the internet for
information on “Tradozone”, “Alprazolam” and “amphetamines”. The words on the
screen danced before my eyes: “suicidal thoughts”, “fatigue”, “paranoia”, and
“nausea”. Paralyzing panic took hold of me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I
retreated to an empty bathroom and discarded the contents of my two small pillboxes
in the toilet, watching them swirl away and vanish beneath the relentless flush. I
feigned stomach problems and fled back home. There, I bid farewell to the remnants
of my weed by sending them down the toilet. I decided to hold onto the Adderall for
sentimental reasons.
Without realizing it though, I had somehow got addicted to both the Tradozone and
the Alprazolam. A few hours after flushing them down the school toilet, I was greeted
by an unwelcome surge of agitation and anxiety that kept me awake all night long.
The following day, while diligently preparing for a Latin test, my misguided attempt
to bolster focus with Adderall, triggered a terrifying ordeal. A generalized sense of
anxiety swept over me, giving rise to wild heart palpitations, an incessant headache,
and suffocating chest tightness. Convinced I was experiencing a heart attack, I was
weighing whether I should just lie in bed to await a potentially fatal coronary event or
just call an ambulance when my mum walked in the room to bring me a sandwich and
a glass of orange juice. Her gaze froze upon me. Huddled, soaked in sweat, with teeth
chattering and pallid skin, I trembled with convulsions. Witnessing her panic
deepened my distress. Following John’s death, I had vowed to shield her from further
sorrow. I had striven to be a paragon of virtue, at least on a superficial level- an
exemplary student, an outstanding athlete, and a skilled pianist. My teachers praised
my mother for how composed and polite I was. Of course, little did they know that I
had led my brother to his untimely death and that I had been dabbling in prescription
drugs to deal with the anguish. That was a burden I bore in silence.
What felt like an eternity later, I suddenly awoke to the sterile hum of fluorescent
lights. I found myself lying on a hospital gurney with a young, stern-looking doctor
examining my pupils with a flashlight. He inquired about my history with Tradozone,
Alprazolam, and amphetamines. Though I initially feigned ignorance, I could tell his
concern was genuine and alarming. The truth unfolded before me: my urine and blood
had exposed the presence of these substances, along with cannabis metabolites. What
I had experienced was not a heart attack but withdrawal syndrome. He had already
apprised my mum of the situation and she was in the psychiatrist’s office trying to
find the best course of action. Immense shame engulfed me. I thought about John.
About a year before his death, my mother had stumbled upon a joint hidden in his
sock drawer and our house had reverberated with their titanic dispute. At that time, I
had been quick to scorn John’s drug experimentation, dismissing him as a walking
cliché with his baggy trousers, piercings, dreadlocks, and joints. Lying on that
hospital gurney, emaciated and anxious, nodding in agreement to the doctor’s
admonitions about experimenting with prescription drugs, I wondered what John
might have thought of me had he been alive.
My parents neither addressed the matter with me directly nor reprimanded me but
their eyes, heavy with deep concern, spoke volumes. My prescribed regimen now
consisted of a modest Zoloft dose, fortified by a weekly Anexate injection. I was
obliged to provide weekly urine samples to demonstrate my commitment to
abstaining from any further substance experimentation. Sleep, once again, became my
major problem. Desperate for distraction, I sought refuge in diversions. Running
became a daily ritual and my sessions at the swimming pool doubled. I studied until
my eyes blurred with exhaustion and I took up German classes to keep my mind
occupied. There was no respite, no moment that didn’t evoke regret for venturing
outside the apartment barefoot, no instant free from the echo of John’s voice in my
mind. The spirit of John seemed omnipresent, haunting me at every turn. I felt as
though I was spiraling into madness. I marveled at how my parents had managed to
uphold a façade of normalcy all those years, embracing their grief with dignity and
grace. What secret strength sustained them? How did they muster the strength to wake
up in the morning, prepare breakfast, commute to work, pack nutritious lunches, and
shuttle me, their failed daughter, to doctors and extracurricular activities?
Everything changed when I crossed paths with Paul. He was a fellow early-morning
swimmer at the local sports complex. His striking appearance, tall and willowy with a
body adorned in tattoos, piqued my curiosity. A prominent scar, winding down his
flank and around his abdomen, added an air of mystery to his allure. The deep desire
to approach him, speak to him, and run my hand through his hair stirred within me.
One day, as I hoisted myself out of the pool, he talked to me. I felt deeply ashamed
and exposed as I looked unhealthy inside and out, my old scars and sharp bones laid
bare for all to see. Paul suggested grabbing breakfast together at the sports complex
canteen. Once again, I found myself unable to utter a word so I nodded. Yet, his warm
smile and the cheerful way he said “Alright, I’ll see you at the canteen in 10
minutes!” filled me with a glimmer of hope.
Paul breathed new life into my desolate world. He was an architecture student with a
passion for post-punk music, clubs and art galleries. My hesitant decision to take this
unexpected journey into romantic relationships filled my parents with immense
elation. Paul bore his past with unwavering honesty. After a few weeks of dating, he
confided in me about his own battle with a devastating motorcycle accident in his late
teens. It had landed him in the ICU with a destroyed kidney, a ruptured spleen, a few
slipped discs and a shattered pelvis. Tragically, his best friend, his companion that
day, had not survived. This ordeal, combined with multiple surgeries, had led him
down a path of addiction to pain medication. I didn’t dare to probe further into that
painful chapter of his life. It was during this exchange of intimate revelations that I
chose to unveil a part of my own story, telling him about the earthquake that had
decimated my home and claimed my brother’s life. However, I carefully omitted the
fact that my brother would have most likely still been alive had I remembered to put
my shoes on. I also decided to withhold my embarrassing stint in addiction. By this
point, Paul should have sensed that something had been amiss with me but I was
determined to shield him from the complete depth of my personal catastrophe.
Paul became my anchor, my lifeline. In his presence, I reclaimed my voice and
rediscovered my smile. No longer did I swim frenetically to escape my thoughts of
John; instead, I savored the soothing embrace of the water against my skin as I
languidly glided through the pool. I rediscovered the joy of playing the piano, with the
keys eagerly awaiting the touch of my fingers. It was as if I had been in a state of
hibernation for a substantial part of my life and I was awakening anew.
Over time, I couldn’t help but sense that my overwhelming reliance on Paul was
taking a toll on him, even though he tried valiantly to mask it. I knew deep inside that
I wasn’t miraculously healed; I had merely shifted my focus from tasks and pills to
Paul. My self-absorption, combined with my focus on my own healing journey,
blinded me to the fact that Paul was also fighting his own demons. I had somehow
underestimated the extent of his struggle with addiction. He was candid about his
experiences and I had heard about his meetings, his mentor, and his visits to an
outpatient clinic. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in control of everything so I never
dared to pry into the specifics of the painkillers he had been addicted to or the
problems he faced. I thought I was being discreet, but in reality, I was reluctant to let
anything mar the newfound happiness that Paul had brought into my life.
Therefore, when Paul, looking profoundly disheartened, announced his need to check
himself into a rehabilitation facility for a while, the shock hit me like a tidal wave. My
reaction was one of sheer horror. In reality, I had become so consumed by my own
fears of life without Paul that my focus had shifted away from his well-being and
safety. I realized I had been totally unsupportive of his journey towards health and
sobriety by persistently making myself the centre of attention. The agony in Paul’s
eyes was unmistakable as he bore witness to my paranoid reaction. Ultimately, he
decided to grant the outpatient clinic another chance and I agreed. I struggled to
recognize the person I had become.
Later that week, Paul’s mentor, Mr Thomas reached out to me, and we arranged to
meet at a local café. Seated across from me at the café, Mr Thomas wasted no time.
He forthrightly explained that Paul had been grappling with a three-year addiction to
painkillers, stemming from a serious injury, multiple operations, and, obviously,
psychological trauma. I mustered the courage to enquire about the specific type of
painkillers, secretly hoping for something as innocuous as paracetamol or ibuprofen.
Mr Thomas responded matter-of-factly, listing “Vicodin, Demerol, and Dilaudid” as
the substances Paul had been addicted to. I had never heard of them. He went on to
explain that they were brand names for hydrocodone, pethidine, and hydromorphone-
substances classified as opioids. I was mortified. In my sheltered, privileged, and
rather childish perspective, opioid addiction had always been synonymous with
“heroin addiction”, a struggle I associated with my favorite rock stars, or tormented
individuals living on the fringes of society. I couldn’t fathom how someone like Paul
could be addicted to opioids. Mr Thomas had little patience for my narrow-minded
assumptions and proceeded to clarify that during his recovery journey, Paul had been
advised against forming personal relationships, especially with someone carrying their
own emotional baggage. Frustration welled up within me. Unable to hold back my
tears, I asserted that I could empathize with Paul because I, too, battled grief,
depression, suicide ideation, and a minor prescription drug addiction. Mr Thomas’s
face softened and he placed his rough hands on my trembling bony hands in a fatherly
manner. “That’s what I’m talking about.” he said gently “You have to confront your
own turmoil, your survivor’s guilt, your grief, your addiction, your pain and let Paul
address his own.”
Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been incredibly selfish and self-
absorbed, clinging to my pre-adolescent mindset where I believed I was the center of
the universe. Drowning in my own suffering, I had failed to grasp that those around
me also bore their own burdens and pain. Fueled by sorrow and obsession with the
circumstances surrounding John’s death, I had driven away those who genuinely
wished to help me. I had depleted their energy and goodwill at my convenience.
Above all, I had gravely taken for granted my parents’ unwavering efforts to assist
me. From arranging doctors and offering unconditional love to funding my piano
lessons and swimming pool sessions as well as providing material comforts- they had
offered me everything generously, despite grappling with their own anguish and grief.
They had already lost one child and they were desperately struggling to keep me
afloat. Yet, I had been dismissive of their pain. Each day they would rise, push
forward, work hard, and conceal their suffering to keep me warm, fed, clothed,
educated, occupied, and taken care of. Meanwhile, I wallowed in my own despair,
shedding tears, starving myself, and squandering the opportunities they provided for
my healing.
A profound sense of nausea washed over me. I yearned to return home and hug my
mother. I wanted to call Paul and offer a sincere apology for my lack of empathy and
foresight. Overwhelming guilt enveloped me, yet this guilt differed from the one I had
experienced following John’s death. John was gone, and nothing would ever change
that. However, this fresh sense of regret I was experiencing held the potential for
change- it could change me, it could change my relationship with my parents, and it
could liberate Paul. No one else had to die. I had to find something meaningful to do
with my human life, a purpose that would bring about positive change. I looked up at
Mr. Thomas, tears streaming down my face. Without hesitation, I finished my coffee
and extended my hand. Paul was now free, and so was I.