10. "She"

Chapter 10 of Accidental Alchemy

It’s a morning sometime in June of 2020. How long has it been since that last injection? Since I collapsed into this despair? A month? Two months? I no longer know.
I wake up and reach for the lamp on my night table, for a brief moment forgetting my fear, and then recoil like I’ve put my hand on a hot stove. Not because I feel pain, but because I know that I will. In a few minutes, or maybe a few hours, it will start as a whisper and then ramp up as the day goes on, peaking at what I call the “witching hour," that hour before bedtime when my sleep anxiety revs up and I am gripped with fear that the pain will rob me of sleep. That’s when it will unleash itself into a full roar, sending a hot, searing nerve pain up the left side of my neck and head.

Even the slightest movements of my neck and spine spark that cycle of pain—lying on my back, reclining in a chair, turning my head, bending my spine a few degrees, lifting my arms higher than my waist. Everything.
Including twisting and reaching for anything on my night table. Which, in my blissful forgetting, I just did. Frozen in fear, anticipating the pain’s slow creep throughout the day to come, I lie rigid in my bed, my breath short and fast. 

I will spend hours like this, as I spend most days now, lying only on my right side, staring for hours at the knots in the wooden panelling. I have stared at them for so long these many weeks, their outlines becoming so familiar, that I have named them.
The hummingbird. 
The galloping horse. 
The sad lady.
They hover above me, bearing silent witness to what I am becoming.

The pain is too great, so I’m once again in a hot bath. Is this my second or third bath today? I can’t remember. It’s the only place I find any respite. I can see how hard it is for Jason to juggle everything, and yet, again and again, he takes the time to help me run the bath, add Epsom salts, and gently help me get in. 
I can’t recline, so I sit cross-legged, my spine straight and rigid, leaning against the side of the tub. I have washcloths soaked in Epsom salts draped across my neck and my shoulders, hoping they might offer some relief. 
I will sit here, mute and still, as long as I can, soaking in the meagre relief it offers, dreading the moment when I have to get out. 

But no matter where I am, there’s no escape from the pain, the scary sensations in my body, or the dark thoughts and emotions constantly writhing inside me. Everything sends my brain into a spiral of scary symptoms. Even music. 
There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run and no way to numb. So I sit in solitude all day, right at the heart of it, without the slightest distraction. 
Time ticks by at the slowest of crawls, a maddening, unfamiliar pace, taunting and cruel, like cold molasses refusing to come out of a jar. I want to smash that damn jar into a million pieces, yell at it with that primal scream constantly stuck in my frozen throat. 
A minute feels like an eternity. A day, a cruel, interminable joke.
Who knew it was possible to hate time itself?
I keep thinking over and over in an absurd loop: “time is trying to kill me." So strange given all the ways I’ve always grasped for more time, slower time, cheating time, savoring time.
Fuck that. I hate time.

I hear Jason’s voice on the phone for hours, still trying to find answers, still trying to find the knob that might change the channel on this horror movie, his voice filling our tiny house. 
I can’t make sense of the words. I just hear the word “she” over and over.
She…She... She.... 
Day after day, week after week. 
She… She... She. 
I’ve started to think of myself as “she.”  It’s easier than “me.” 
Because I don’t recognize myself anymore. 

I look around the room and see my face staring out at me from picture frame after picture frame: family photos at Christmastime, me and the boys on the beach in our beloved San Juan islands, the four of us skiing in Japan. I double over with impossible emotions.
Crushing grief. 
White-hot shame. 
And then… a wild rage. Rage at that healthy, vibrant, young, smiling face—my face—that I don’t think I will ever be again. I want to claw at her, strike her from my memory, and never see her again.
I unleash my rage on the picture frames, slamming them down one at a time, hoping they'll break so I don’t ever have to lay eyes on her again.

Something in me is giving up, giving way. I can’t see a light at the end of this tunnel. I don’t even understand what tunnel this is. I have no idea how I got here, and I don't know if there’s a way out.
For the first time in my life, my brain is playing tricks on me and making me think life may not be worth living, and I can’t stop thinking of all the ways I can put an end to it: putting rocks in my pockets and walking out into the pond; slitting my wrists while I’m in the bath; taking a bottle of pills from that insane stash piled up in the medicine cabinet. Day after interminable day, these images swirl around in my foggy mind, taunting me. Daring me.

But I always come back to Jason and my boys. My three loves. The dear ones who have been everything to me. I know I could never do it to them. 
But I feel like I’m dying without dying. Sanity feels so threadbare, waiting to tear apart at the seams at any moment. I’m holding those seams together by force of sheer will, and I’m not sure how long I can hold on.

What would happen if I let go?

Letter to that younger me

If only. 
If only I could reach back in time, scoop you up in my now healthy arms, enfold you in my heart, the heart that was cracked wide open by it all. 
You. You who was me just a few short years ago. What would I say to you? What would I share to ease your pain, give you a little more hope?  
I would start by saying, “I see you, dear one.”  I see your pain. I see your fear. 
I see you, dear one, and I wrap you in comfort and hope. 
You're not alone. You were never alone. Let my embrace dispel that crushing loneliness for a brief, blessed moment. 
Lean on me and let me share what I know. 
There's hope. You will make it out. There's a whole new life waiting for you. Not your old life. That chapter is closed. But a new life, a new you, one forged in pain, steeped in a deep strength you are gaining one breath at a time. 
Would you believe me if I say that before long, your body will once again be full of energy, your mind sparkling with words and insights, your heart more open than you can imagine?
No, I don't think you would believe me. 
So as I gather you up in one final embrace, I'll just say this: 
Have faith. Collapse into that faith over and over in both wonder and desperation. That faith will move mountains for you. It will part the seas and conjure miracles that are beyond your little self or mine. 
Have faith, dear one. 
Trust this grueling adventure. 
You are exactly where you're supposed to be. 

If you’re new here, welcome!

However you made your way here, I’m grateful you found me and happy to have you pop into my little world, whether it’s for a brief visit or a longer hangout around my campfire.

Accidental Alchemy is a serial memoir, so if you’re curious and have the time, I recommend starting with the Prologue and reading chapters in order for the full experience. You can access all chapters on my Substack homepage.

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PS.. All art and poetry included in this memoir are my own unless I specifically credit another author or artist.