A few months ago (June), this blog celebrated its tenth anniversary. It's outlived some of my friendships (because said friends died). Heck, it's almost outlived the Blogger platform itself. It's listened to me when quite literally no-one else will. Some people think I'm ridiculous for wanting to post my 'private' thoughts online 'where everyone can see them.' I've always had a couple rebuttals to that one:
1. Honey, this blog barely scratches the surface of my thoughts. These are by no means the private thoughts. Not by a long shot. I fully recognise that people might see them, and I am 100% okay with that. In fact, the reason I post things is because I want people to see them.
2. 'Where everyone can see them?' Don't make me laugh. Since Brittney died, there's been nobody to read these unless I post one of the especially good (or especially offensive) posts on my personal Facebook page. In a way, that's why I did this -- then those who really did care to know how I thought could read them at their own leisure, and at their own pace, and those who found this blog 'too negative' could simply forget about its existence.
I started this blog just before the car accident that almost killed me (we're talking days before). As a result, this blog has chronicled my life as I navigated through that paradigm shift and the consequences of my conclusions about life. That accident was a major life event and probably was the thing that had the greatest impact on my life up until 2015/The Year From Hell (incidentally, this blog also serves as a nice before-and-after of the state of my soul in relation to said Year From Hell). Many times I've posted things thinking it would be the final record of my thoughts before my untimely death, and I've also tried at other times to post the happy things that I could not feel in an attempt to remember something, anything besides the soul-sucking depression.
Often, this blog has been a place where I can offload some of the mental weight of depression without actually burdening an actual overstretched human being. I think in a way, that was my secret motivation for starting a blog in the first place (that and I thought people would be far more interested in me and my thoughts/writing career/computer nerdiness than they actually are). Turned out only Brittney was even moderately interested in such things, and she was the greatest supporter of this blog until her death in February 2015. (To this day, I would say she is still the greatest supporter this blog has had over the entire ten years.) I managed to somehow hold onto this blog during college, and it probably saved my life more than once by giving me a safe place to vent when not a single soul on the planet was willing to acknowledge my existence.
Anyone who's been here since the Brittney days (I don't even know if there are any out there) might remember the old name -- Thoughts From The Asylum. I named it that partly because sixteen-year-old me felt like she was living in an insane asylum (while this may have been a slightly extreme take on the situation, it was not entirely inaccurate), and partly because she took asylum from a dysfunctional home life (from which she had literally zero refuge because homeschool) in writing, which has been a focus of this blog since its inception. When dance started to become a bigger factor in my life and I started seriously considering making a career of it, I renamed the blog The Edge Of The Dream -- after the White Heart song -- in reference to my faith at the time that bigger and better things were to come for me in the world of dance and performing. (In a nutshell -- has that happened? Kind of... yes, in the sense that I have done more as a performer by this point in my life than I could have imagined eight years ago when I changed the blog name; but also no, in the sense that my hope was and still is to direct a dance team. In that sense, I am still, in September 2020, at the edge of the dream -- and wondering when I will finally start heading toward the centre.)
I'm glad to have this blog. Sometimes I read back through my own words and find deep encouragement here, from my past self, words that I need to hear in the present that no-one can provide. Often it provides me with a small escape into the world as it was before 2015, when my mother's family still spoke to each other, Brittney and I wrote copiously and proofread each other's work constantly, and I still had some semblance of childlike faith in God (to SUPER condense that update: I've somehow managed to not become agnostic. I definitely still believe God exists. But I'm still not convinced He loves me. I really think no-one other than God Himself will be able to convince me otherwise).
I plan to continue writing and posting here. Whenever I feel the urge to write but have no clear idea of what I want to talk about, I tend to go to Blogger and open up a 'new post' page. I have probably about as many unfinished drafts as I do published posts because of this practice. It's somehow different, more freeing, to write in Blogger than in a Pages document despite how simple literally all my Pages documents are (I keep them almost Windows-Notepad-esque in their simplicity, even -- perhaps especially -- for my novels). This probably also explains the amount of rambling posts on this blog (which probably also explains the lack of readership).
Anyway, where I was going with this is that this has been such a comforting habit over the past ten years. In this time of societal and personal upheaval, you'd better believe I don't plan on letting go of this blog anytime soon.
Thanks to any of you who may have actually stuck around over the years (and managed to not criticise me extensively for being 'too negative' on my OWN PERSONAL BLOG THAT YOU ARE IN NO WAY REQUIRED TO READ). Here's to another ten years at the asylum/edge of the dream.
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
03 September 2020
30 June 2017
Five Inches
30 June 2010. Seven years ago today.
I had just gotten my driver's license a month and a half earlier. My parents had graciously bought me a (used) car, and on the 30th, my sister and I were on our way to our friends' house.
To get to their house, we had to make a left turn onto a bi-directional secondary highway. We had the stop sign, so I stopped. We were in prairie Alberta -- the land is flat and fairly clear as far as the eye can see. We were about a five-minute drive from the nearest town, and you can almost see that town from that intersection.
I was still a fairly cautious new driver, so I looked both ways twice. It had just been raining. My sister had been keeping the passenger window clear of fog with her sleeve so I could see out her window just fine, but I had to actually open my window to see down the road. Seeing no one in either direction, I began to make my turn.
Then I saw headlights coming from the opposite direction.
At first I wasn't too concerned. If I was quick enough I could continue into my lane and the truck would pass by me. I would be cutting it much closer than I would have liked, but it was doable...
As I pressed the accelerator to complete the turn more quickly, I suddenly realised that the truck was on the wrong side of the centre line. If I continued into the lane, I would hit it head on.
Something from the driving manual flashed through my head: If you must hit something and the ditch or something stationary isn't an option, try to hit something going the same direction as you are rather than head-on. I wrenched the wheel to the right, hoping I was still far enough back from the truck's path to get away with a sideswipe going the same direction. I kept my foot on the gas to accelerate my attempt to swing around. There was a flash of red in my windshield... a tremendous whoosh... the car whipped around...
We stopped moving. Without thinking, I told my sister to get out of the car and I turned to do the same. My lungs were burning. There was something in between me and the door. I pulled at it blindly, trying to get at the door handle. As I did so I realised my obstacle was the air bag.
Crap.
I knew from an accident my mother had been in years before that the air bag meant the car was totalled.
Finally I managed to get out. I didn't have the heart to even look back at the car as I ran to the side of the road where some of the witnesses were beckoning. A few seconds later I realised I had left my cell phone and ran back to the car to get it.
The car was filled with smoke and dust, but somehow I knew it wasn't on fire. I dug around between the front seats looking for the phone before finally finding it on the floor on the passenger side. The dust was irritating my eyes and it was getting harder and harder to breathe... The dust was like chalk -- thick and dry, but sticky when breathed in. After a failed attempt at getting the key out of the ignition, I merely grabbed my water bottle and went back to the side of the road.
I began to dial my dad's number, but one of the witnesses saw me with a phone in my hand and told me to call 9-1-1. I initially refused: "I have to call my dad." The witness insisted that I call 9-1-1 first. Lacking the presence of mind to formulate an argument, I punched in 9-1-1 and then handed my phone to the witness -- I had no earthly idea what I would say to the operator. From the moment I had realised that the air bag had gone off, every conscious thought had disappeared from my mind. I saw things and heard things and I reacted to them and remember them clearly even now, seven years later, but I could not formulate my own thoughts. And I was aware of that. It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had. I remember trying to get myself to think a conscious thought, but I couldn't. Even the idea of calling my dad was coming from some internal unconscious autopilot.
I borrowed a phone from a bystander and dictated my dad's cell number to her. Years of hearing my mother quote it to customers over the phone had internalised it to such a point that even in a state of shock I could rattle it off. The witness sent the call and handed the phone to me.
He picked up, but there was a long pause before he spoke. Somewhere in my subconscious I realised that he wouldn't recognise this number on his caller ID. "Dad, it's Kate," I said as quickly as possible to prevent him hanging up. "I've been in an accident."
There was a reason I called my dad. My mother would have absolutely lost her mind -- she had just filled the car up with gas the previous night. She would have lectured me about the money I'd just wasted by totalling the car -- not to mention the inevitable increase in insurance costs.
My dad, however, is a little more able to focus on important things in an emergency. "Where are you?" he asked.
...And I couldn't remember.
I still remember sitting on the passenger seat in the witnesses' car (she had insisted my sister and I sit because we were both clearly rattled), staring straight at the highway sign, knowing it contained the information I needed, but not able to read the numbers. I struggled in vain to translate the shapes on the sign into words that my dad would be able to understand.
Finally I said, "The turn Mom told me to take." I hadn't wanted to say it like that -- it would only awaken even more of her ire because then she would think I was blaming her for this and she's HIGHLY sensitive about being blamed for anything -- but it was all I could come up with that he would understand.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said, and hung up. I handed the phone back to the witness and told my sister he was coming. She was freaking completely out and it was all that the witness could do to keep her seated and wait for the police. Meanwhile, the dust I'd inhaled from the air bag was beginning to burn in the back of my throat and my lungs began to feel sticky inside. I was coughing more and more in a vain effort to try and clear it, and no amount of water would take the burning away. (To this day, I suffer from a chronic cough and breathing issues.)
At some point, somebody had pushed my car to the side of the road not far from where I sat in the witness' car. It was the first proper look I'd gotten of it and I gasped.
When you draw a car, you draw the hood, then go up a bit for the cab, then down a bit for the trunk. Now imagine erasing the entire hood, or imagine cutting off the hood of the car in line with the windshield. That was what I saw. The entire front of my car was gone.
"Where's the engine?" I asked the witness.
"It's in pieces in the intersection," she said.
I half-stood and looked over the roof of the witness' car. I expected to see semi-recognisable car parts -- you know, part of a fluid tank here, hoses there, maybe jagged chunks of plastic or a few gears.
Instead, I saw shards.
Millions of shards, like shattered glass, catching the light and throwing it across the damp pavement. That was all that was left of the engine.
My dad and the police arrived around the same time. The ambulance arrived shortly afterward and checked the occupants of the truck (there had been a baby in the truck, who was the higher priority) (the baby survived -- actually they all did), then came over to my sister and me. My sister outright refused to let the paramedics check her, but my breathing was so laboured by now that I insisted they check me. I felt like I was suffocating.
They took me to the ambulance and began checking me all over: "Does this hurt?" they asked, pressing on various parts of my body. Nothing did, until they got to my throat.
"Does this hurt?" the paramedic asked, touching his fingertips lightly on my throat. It was the lightest of brushes, but with my breathing restricted already, he may as well have closed his fist around my windpipe. I recoiled instinctively, with a gasp for good measure as I tried to keep breathing.
Without another word they had me lie down and strapped me down on a back board.
"Are you taking me to the hospital?" I asked.
"Yes, for x-rays."
"Can you tell my dad where I'm going?" I asked.
"Sure." They swung the ambulance around and opened the back door. I heard them talking...
"Do you want to talk to him?" one of the paramedics called to me.
"I just want him to know where I'll be," I said.
They drove me to the hospital, no sirens, asking me questions the whole way. Name, address, date of birth, contact information, next-of-kin... then at the end of all this, they asked me what province I was in and what year it was, to establish that everything they'd just spent ten minutes taking detailed notes on had a reasonable chance of being accurate.
They took me to the hospital, but the x-ray room was in use, so they wheeled me into a room in the emergency department and left me there for the better part of two hours, with oxygen because I had been complaining this entire time that I couldn't breathe (though their instruments showed I was at 98% saturation). Strapped to a back board, completely immoblised, with the events of the previous half-hour playing on an infinite loop through my head, I had no choice but to consider what might have been -- what I'd just escaped. My dad and sister arrived and talked quietly with each other as they waited. My sister was still freaking out and my dad and the nursing staff were both trying to assure her that I was not actually dying, that these x-rays were only a precaution.
I, meanwhile, was being shocked by the brevity and frailty of my own life. Even as I lay immobile on a hospital bed, feeling whiplash set into my neck muscles, I was acutely aware that I had been given a second chance. Every second I was experiencing now was a bonus second -- one that I may not have had. I pictured what it would have been like if I had died: seeing the truck's headlights and maybe the flash of red -- and then immediately seeing the 'lights of Glory.' I realised, suddenly, that I was not done on earth. I still had a purpose to fulfil here. And there on a hospital bed, staring at the pocked ceiling because I had no other choice, I vowed I would find that purpose and pursue it with every ounce of drive I possessed. Time was short, and a long life was not guaranteed.
They took x-rays of my neck, then, as there were no fractures, let me go. My dad actually dropped us off at our friends' house anyway. Life continued. I was sore and stiff and coughing violently nearly 24/7, but otherwise it was as if nothing had happened.
Several days -- perhaps a week -- later, my parents and I went to the impound lot to look at the car and retrieve the cassettes from it (because priorities). With a few days distance from the event and now able to think in clear sentences again, I was still shocked at the state of it. One detail that particularly caught my attention was the driver's side -- the side of the initial impact.
One of the witnesses had told my dad after I had left in the ambulance that day, "At the last second, she tried to swing the other way -- that probably saved her."
This was borne out by the car itself. There were five inches between the sheared-off edge of where the front of the car had been and the hinge of the driver's door, and gradually more of the car remained the further one looked toward the passenger side. I remember thinking, my legs would have been in that space -- the space that had been torn open by the truck. Yet my legs were preserved. It was not lost on me that I might never have walked again, yet here I was, still able to walk and dance as if nothing had happened.
For a long time that catalysed my fire to keep dancing. To me it was a sign that dance was still in my future. If God had wanted me to stop dancing, He would likely have taken my legs away right there -- if not my life. But I had remained. There was still something more for me. And I determined to devote my life to finding what it was and doing it.
I had just gotten my driver's license a month and a half earlier. My parents had graciously bought me a (used) car, and on the 30th, my sister and I were on our way to our friends' house.
To get to their house, we had to make a left turn onto a bi-directional secondary highway. We had the stop sign, so I stopped. We were in prairie Alberta -- the land is flat and fairly clear as far as the eye can see. We were about a five-minute drive from the nearest town, and you can almost see that town from that intersection.
I was still a fairly cautious new driver, so I looked both ways twice. It had just been raining. My sister had been keeping the passenger window clear of fog with her sleeve so I could see out her window just fine, but I had to actually open my window to see down the road. Seeing no one in either direction, I began to make my turn.
Then I saw headlights coming from the opposite direction.
At first I wasn't too concerned. If I was quick enough I could continue into my lane and the truck would pass by me. I would be cutting it much closer than I would have liked, but it was doable...
As I pressed the accelerator to complete the turn more quickly, I suddenly realised that the truck was on the wrong side of the centre line. If I continued into the lane, I would hit it head on.
Something from the driving manual flashed through my head: If you must hit something and the ditch or something stationary isn't an option, try to hit something going the same direction as you are rather than head-on. I wrenched the wheel to the right, hoping I was still far enough back from the truck's path to get away with a sideswipe going the same direction. I kept my foot on the gas to accelerate my attempt to swing around. There was a flash of red in my windshield... a tremendous whoosh... the car whipped around...
We stopped moving. Without thinking, I told my sister to get out of the car and I turned to do the same. My lungs were burning. There was something in between me and the door. I pulled at it blindly, trying to get at the door handle. As I did so I realised my obstacle was the air bag.
Crap.
I knew from an accident my mother had been in years before that the air bag meant the car was totalled.
Finally I managed to get out. I didn't have the heart to even look back at the car as I ran to the side of the road where some of the witnesses were beckoning. A few seconds later I realised I had left my cell phone and ran back to the car to get it.
The car was filled with smoke and dust, but somehow I knew it wasn't on fire. I dug around between the front seats looking for the phone before finally finding it on the floor on the passenger side. The dust was irritating my eyes and it was getting harder and harder to breathe... The dust was like chalk -- thick and dry, but sticky when breathed in. After a failed attempt at getting the key out of the ignition, I merely grabbed my water bottle and went back to the side of the road.
I began to dial my dad's number, but one of the witnesses saw me with a phone in my hand and told me to call 9-1-1. I initially refused: "I have to call my dad." The witness insisted that I call 9-1-1 first. Lacking the presence of mind to formulate an argument, I punched in 9-1-1 and then handed my phone to the witness -- I had no earthly idea what I would say to the operator. From the moment I had realised that the air bag had gone off, every conscious thought had disappeared from my mind. I saw things and heard things and I reacted to them and remember them clearly even now, seven years later, but I could not formulate my own thoughts. And I was aware of that. It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had. I remember trying to get myself to think a conscious thought, but I couldn't. Even the idea of calling my dad was coming from some internal unconscious autopilot.
I borrowed a phone from a bystander and dictated my dad's cell number to her. Years of hearing my mother quote it to customers over the phone had internalised it to such a point that even in a state of shock I could rattle it off. The witness sent the call and handed the phone to me.
He picked up, but there was a long pause before he spoke. Somewhere in my subconscious I realised that he wouldn't recognise this number on his caller ID. "Dad, it's Kate," I said as quickly as possible to prevent him hanging up. "I've been in an accident."
There was a reason I called my dad. My mother would have absolutely lost her mind -- she had just filled the car up with gas the previous night. She would have lectured me about the money I'd just wasted by totalling the car -- not to mention the inevitable increase in insurance costs.
My dad, however, is a little more able to focus on important things in an emergency. "Where are you?" he asked.
...And I couldn't remember.
I still remember sitting on the passenger seat in the witnesses' car (she had insisted my sister and I sit because we were both clearly rattled), staring straight at the highway sign, knowing it contained the information I needed, but not able to read the numbers. I struggled in vain to translate the shapes on the sign into words that my dad would be able to understand.
Finally I said, "The turn Mom told me to take." I hadn't wanted to say it like that -- it would only awaken even more of her ire because then she would think I was blaming her for this and she's HIGHLY sensitive about being blamed for anything -- but it was all I could come up with that he would understand.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said, and hung up. I handed the phone back to the witness and told my sister he was coming. She was freaking completely out and it was all that the witness could do to keep her seated and wait for the police. Meanwhile, the dust I'd inhaled from the air bag was beginning to burn in the back of my throat and my lungs began to feel sticky inside. I was coughing more and more in a vain effort to try and clear it, and no amount of water would take the burning away. (To this day, I suffer from a chronic cough and breathing issues.)
At some point, somebody had pushed my car to the side of the road not far from where I sat in the witness' car. It was the first proper look I'd gotten of it and I gasped.
When you draw a car, you draw the hood, then go up a bit for the cab, then down a bit for the trunk. Now imagine erasing the entire hood, or imagine cutting off the hood of the car in line with the windshield. That was what I saw. The entire front of my car was gone.
"Where's the engine?" I asked the witness.
"It's in pieces in the intersection," she said.
I half-stood and looked over the roof of the witness' car. I expected to see semi-recognisable car parts -- you know, part of a fluid tank here, hoses there, maybe jagged chunks of plastic or a few gears.
Instead, I saw shards.
Millions of shards, like shattered glass, catching the light and throwing it across the damp pavement. That was all that was left of the engine.
My dad and the police arrived around the same time. The ambulance arrived shortly afterward and checked the occupants of the truck (there had been a baby in the truck, who was the higher priority) (the baby survived -- actually they all did), then came over to my sister and me. My sister outright refused to let the paramedics check her, but my breathing was so laboured by now that I insisted they check me. I felt like I was suffocating.
They took me to the ambulance and began checking me all over: "Does this hurt?" they asked, pressing on various parts of my body. Nothing did, until they got to my throat.
"Does this hurt?" the paramedic asked, touching his fingertips lightly on my throat. It was the lightest of brushes, but with my breathing restricted already, he may as well have closed his fist around my windpipe. I recoiled instinctively, with a gasp for good measure as I tried to keep breathing.
Without another word they had me lie down and strapped me down on a back board.
"Are you taking me to the hospital?" I asked.
"Yes, for x-rays."
"Can you tell my dad where I'm going?" I asked.
"Sure." They swung the ambulance around and opened the back door. I heard them talking...
"Do you want to talk to him?" one of the paramedics called to me.
"I just want him to know where I'll be," I said.
They drove me to the hospital, no sirens, asking me questions the whole way. Name, address, date of birth, contact information, next-of-kin... then at the end of all this, they asked me what province I was in and what year it was, to establish that everything they'd just spent ten minutes taking detailed notes on had a reasonable chance of being accurate.
They took me to the hospital, but the x-ray room was in use, so they wheeled me into a room in the emergency department and left me there for the better part of two hours, with oxygen because I had been complaining this entire time that I couldn't breathe (though their instruments showed I was at 98% saturation). Strapped to a back board, completely immoblised, with the events of the previous half-hour playing on an infinite loop through my head, I had no choice but to consider what might have been -- what I'd just escaped. My dad and sister arrived and talked quietly with each other as they waited. My sister was still freaking out and my dad and the nursing staff were both trying to assure her that I was not actually dying, that these x-rays were only a precaution.
I, meanwhile, was being shocked by the brevity and frailty of my own life. Even as I lay immobile on a hospital bed, feeling whiplash set into my neck muscles, I was acutely aware that I had been given a second chance. Every second I was experiencing now was a bonus second -- one that I may not have had. I pictured what it would have been like if I had died: seeing the truck's headlights and maybe the flash of red -- and then immediately seeing the 'lights of Glory.' I realised, suddenly, that I was not done on earth. I still had a purpose to fulfil here. And there on a hospital bed, staring at the pocked ceiling because I had no other choice, I vowed I would find that purpose and pursue it with every ounce of drive I possessed. Time was short, and a long life was not guaranteed.
They took x-rays of my neck, then, as there were no fractures, let me go. My dad actually dropped us off at our friends' house anyway. Life continued. I was sore and stiff and coughing violently nearly 24/7, but otherwise it was as if nothing had happened.
Several days -- perhaps a week -- later, my parents and I went to the impound lot to look at the car and retrieve the cassettes from it (because priorities). With a few days distance from the event and now able to think in clear sentences again, I was still shocked at the state of it. One detail that particularly caught my attention was the driver's side -- the side of the initial impact.
One of the witnesses had told my dad after I had left in the ambulance that day, "At the last second, she tried to swing the other way -- that probably saved her."
This was borne out by the car itself. There were five inches between the sheared-off edge of where the front of the car had been and the hinge of the driver's door, and gradually more of the car remained the further one looked toward the passenger side. I remember thinking, my legs would have been in that space -- the space that had been torn open by the truck. Yet my legs were preserved. It was not lost on me that I might never have walked again, yet here I was, still able to walk and dance as if nothing had happened.
For a long time that catalysed my fire to keep dancing. To me it was a sign that dance was still in my future. If God had wanted me to stop dancing, He would likely have taken my legs away right there -- if not my life. But I had remained. There was still something more for me. And I determined to devote my life to finding what it was and doing it.
18 May 2017
To Love. To Fail.
After surviving a car accident in June 2010, I vowed that I would be an encouraging person. That no-one who encountered me would leave me without knowing they were loved and cared for and important.
When Brittney died, I tried to renew this vow. But the guilt that dogged me for failing to be as kind and caring as possible to her sucked my resolve dry. I had failed. And there was absolutely no redemption to be won. There was no hope of a second chance.
When my cousin died two months later, it only reinforced this. I wasn't close to my cousin, but I could have been -- should have been. I cared for her deeply, but she never knew this. And again, I was left with no hope whatsoever at a second chance to let her know that at least somebody on the planet cared for her. Yes, her parents and siblings loved her. But love shouldn't be limited to that.
By the time my cousin died I was so physically depleted and emotionally wounded that I withdrew into myself. I had failed -- twice. I'm realising this school year that perhaps the thing I fear the most is failure -- of any kind, in any area of life. To have those two relational failures slug me back-to-back convinced me that I was a failure. So I gave up. Better to not try and not fail than to make a vow (even to myself) and go back on it or mess it up -- that is, fail.
I withdrew from everyone. I waited for someone to come break my shell, to draw back the curtain and direct the sunlight onto me again.
...It's hard for me to continue writing this. On one hand, I'm still waiting. Will someone care enough to reach out to me, even through the darkness? (The logic is, if I drag myself out, it's selfish of me. What if nobody wanted me to begin with and then I just show up again, uninvited? FAIL. But if someone else comes searching for me -- that means they missed me. That means they wanted me.)
But on the other hand -- I still want to be that loving, caring, kind person, no matter what the other person is like. On some level I don't want to ask more of people, emotionally/relationally, than I can give back. (To take more than I give is -- you guessed it -- failure. No, I can't win.) I still want to 'give my heart' (as my college program director puts it) -- but 1. I don't think it's worth giving, 2. I can't handle losing anyone else, and 3. what if I screw it up again and accidentally alienate the very people I really care about? That is: what if I fail again? People are pretty graceless as a whole. Ninety-eight percent of the time you have exactly one chance. Foul it up -- say one word with the wrong tone of voice -- and you're automatically a 'killjoy' (at best) or 'toxic' (at worst).
If I could find a way to make people feel loved without screwing it up and without having to get my heart broken again -- I would leap at the chance. But I know it doesn't work like that, so now I have to choose between the two. It's an impossible choice. Either one leads to failure.
When Brittney died, I tried to renew this vow. But the guilt that dogged me for failing to be as kind and caring as possible to her sucked my resolve dry. I had failed. And there was absolutely no redemption to be won. There was no hope of a second chance.
When my cousin died two months later, it only reinforced this. I wasn't close to my cousin, but I could have been -- should have been. I cared for her deeply, but she never knew this. And again, I was left with no hope whatsoever at a second chance to let her know that at least somebody on the planet cared for her. Yes, her parents and siblings loved her. But love shouldn't be limited to that.
By the time my cousin died I was so physically depleted and emotionally wounded that I withdrew into myself. I had failed -- twice. I'm realising this school year that perhaps the thing I fear the most is failure -- of any kind, in any area of life. To have those two relational failures slug me back-to-back convinced me that I was a failure. So I gave up. Better to not try and not fail than to make a vow (even to myself) and go back on it or mess it up -- that is, fail.
I withdrew from everyone. I waited for someone to come break my shell, to draw back the curtain and direct the sunlight onto me again.
...It's hard for me to continue writing this. On one hand, I'm still waiting. Will someone care enough to reach out to me, even through the darkness? (The logic is, if I drag myself out, it's selfish of me. What if nobody wanted me to begin with and then I just show up again, uninvited? FAIL. But if someone else comes searching for me -- that means they missed me. That means they wanted me.)
But on the other hand -- I still want to be that loving, caring, kind person, no matter what the other person is like. On some level I don't want to ask more of people, emotionally/relationally, than I can give back. (To take more than I give is -- you guessed it -- failure. No, I can't win.) I still want to 'give my heart' (as my college program director puts it) -- but 1. I don't think it's worth giving, 2. I can't handle losing anyone else, and 3. what if I screw it up again and accidentally alienate the very people I really care about? That is: what if I fail again? People are pretty graceless as a whole. Ninety-eight percent of the time you have exactly one chance. Foul it up -- say one word with the wrong tone of voice -- and you're automatically a 'killjoy' (at best) or 'toxic' (at worst).
If I could find a way to make people feel loved without screwing it up and without having to get my heart broken again -- I would leap at the chance. But I know it doesn't work like that, so now I have to choose between the two. It's an impossible choice. Either one leads to failure.
30 June 2012
What Would I Have Missed?
June 30.
I didn't know the date at the time (I'm often lucky just to know what month it is). But since that week it's been etched into my mind. Hardly a day goes by where the memory of June 30, 2010 doesn't nudge at my consciousness.
I feel, in a way, that I've been given a 'bonus life,' like in a video game. Especially in the first year after the accident, I would hear the name of the date and my first thought would be, 'the day I died,' in the same casual way I associate certain dates with friends' birthdays. It took conscious thought to remember that I hadn't died (actually I hadn't even been seriously injured).
It was such a catalyst. Before the accident, I was depressed, numb to everything, at times suicidal -- in fact, just that Sunday I had been poking out of habit at the idea of suicide again, in the wake of some especially cutting words directed at me by a member of the youth group, whom I had previously considered a friend.
But on June 30, laying in that hospital bed, completely immobilised as I waited for them to take x-rays, thinking about the events of an hour before and what could have been -- suddenly I realised I wanted to live. I've not been suicidal since.
As I lay there I wondered, what if I had died? What would I have left?
That set me into a completely different mindset. If it was not yet my time to die, then what was I supposed to do with my life until it was?
Starting 1 July 2010, I pursued the answer to that question like a madwoman. It's become a bit of an addiction, that question... What am I supposed to do with my life? This year? This week? Today? This moment?
My searching and praying pointed to my passion for dance, but that's too long for this post. It also pushed me deeper into encouraging other people and other things as well.
Today, though, on the two-year anniversary, I started thinking -- what would I have missed? What have I experienced since that day that I wouldn't have if I been five inches further into the intersection at the time of impact?
I would never have seen my little brother (six months old at the time), learn how to walk and I would now be missing watching his vocabulary increase at a daily rate.
I would have missed two years of dance by now (going on three).
All those dances in my head, those pieces of choreography I kept reviewing over and over in my mind so to keep them fresh until I knew how to write them down -- those would have been gone. Sing Your Freedom, You Are The One, King Of Kings, Apathy Alert, The Gift, Them -- those would never have been composed or written down (now that I think about it, I didn't even know any of those songs at the time).
The novels Reuben, Rebecca's World, Chasm, Hidden Beauty, and Kidnapped would never have been written, even in rough draft form.
I would never have gotten to own this MacBook.
I would never have been introduced to Lecrae, classicchristian247.com, or (gasp!) White Heart. (No wonder I was depressed -- the White Heart content in my brain was low.)
In a similar vein, I would never have gotten to witness the release of John Schlitt's The Greater Cause (just ordered my copy today!).
I would never have been able to graduate.
I would never have gotten to experience for myself the peace and joy the Holy Spirit gives (another story for another post).
I would have missed last night's beautiful sunset.
I would have missed out on a good thousand or so fantastic songs (I found something I wrote just weeks before the accident saying I had 493 songs in my iTunes library. I'm currently pushing 2,000 and probably have another 500 tracks in my iTunes wish list -- never mind the stuff that isn't on the iTunes Store).
I would have missed my friends' wedding a few weeks ago.
There are so many others. Every moment is one I might never have seen. Every breath is one I might never have taken but for the grace of God in providing that five-inch space on 30 June 2010.
As someone who has been given a second chance, listen to me: Don't waste your life. When I woke up that morning, I would never have guessed it could have been my last.
28 June 2011
The Jealousy In Me
Someone from our church was recently in an accident.
She's the associate pastor's wife and a very sweet person, but for some reason I'm jealous.
Everyone in the church has sent out emails and posted on Facebook to pray for her.
Last year I was in a very serious accident. My life (or at least the use of my legs) was spared by five inches.
Aside from four cliché comments on my status requesting prayer for the baby in the other vehicle, nobody gave a crap about it. 'Oh did you hear Kate was in an accident?' 'No. How is she?' 'Fine.' 'Hmph. Figures.'
I realise this person is a lot more popular with the general congregation (not to mention more widely known), but this bothers me. Why does everyone fret about her and not me? All I got was a couple of half-baked 'oh yeah sure, glad you're okay' from everyone who heard about it (save one close friend who actually was concerned) and this person gets dozens of people sending out petitions through various mediums to pray for her plus people saying 'Oh no! I'm so glad you're okay! We love you -- take it easy!' and similar sentiments.
You know, when I was in my accident, I was basically fine -- the standard whiplash and some recurring breathing problems but nothing too serious really. But was it too much to ask for a little sympathy? How would these people feel if I had died that day -- ripped out of the world at such a young age?
Apparently they wouldn't have missed me.
I know it's ridiculous to suddenly get all offended about it nearly a year later, but would it really have been too much to ask to get an 'I love you' or a hug along with one of those 'glad you're ok' clichés? Was the only reason they were glad I was okay because since I was okay they wouldn't need to feel guilty about wishing me dead and then having it come true?
If I bring so much to the world as they say, why then were they so blasé about it? Certainly, this person in the church is lucky to be alive, just as I was, and I really am glad she's all right, but... how come everyone loves her and not me? Have I alienated that many people already? Have I hurt so many by careless words (the last of which were spoken almost three years ago, prior to this being brought to my attention and the subsequent efforts I've made to curb my tongue)? Have I ruined the lives of so many by simply existing? Is my perfectionism (which I'm openly trying to tone down) that intimidating that people would find it a relief to have me wiped off the planet?
Perhaps I should have died in that accident, because apparently nobody needs me here no matter how much they say they do.
She's the associate pastor's wife and a very sweet person, but for some reason I'm jealous.
Everyone in the church has sent out emails and posted on Facebook to pray for her.
Last year I was in a very serious accident. My life (or at least the use of my legs) was spared by five inches.
Aside from four cliché comments on my status requesting prayer for the baby in the other vehicle, nobody gave a crap about it. 'Oh did you hear Kate was in an accident?' 'No. How is she?' 'Fine.' 'Hmph. Figures.'
I realise this person is a lot more popular with the general congregation (not to mention more widely known), but this bothers me. Why does everyone fret about her and not me? All I got was a couple of half-baked 'oh yeah sure, glad you're okay' from everyone who heard about it (save one close friend who actually was concerned) and this person gets dozens of people sending out petitions through various mediums to pray for her plus people saying 'Oh no! I'm so glad you're okay! We love you -- take it easy!' and similar sentiments.
You know, when I was in my accident, I was basically fine -- the standard whiplash and some recurring breathing problems but nothing too serious really. But was it too much to ask for a little sympathy? How would these people feel if I had died that day -- ripped out of the world at such a young age?
Apparently they wouldn't have missed me.
I know it's ridiculous to suddenly get all offended about it nearly a year later, but would it really have been too much to ask to get an 'I love you' or a hug along with one of those 'glad you're ok' clichés? Was the only reason they were glad I was okay because since I was okay they wouldn't need to feel guilty about wishing me dead and then having it come true?
If I bring so much to the world as they say, why then were they so blasé about it? Certainly, this person in the church is lucky to be alive, just as I was, and I really am glad she's all right, but... how come everyone loves her and not me? Have I alienated that many people already? Have I hurt so many by careless words (the last of which were spoken almost three years ago, prior to this being brought to my attention and the subsequent efforts I've made to curb my tongue)? Have I ruined the lives of so many by simply existing? Is my perfectionism (which I'm openly trying to tone down) that intimidating that people would find it a relief to have me wiped off the planet?
Perhaps I should have died in that accident, because apparently nobody needs me here no matter how much they say they do.
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