I doubt it needs any explanation, anyone who knows me or has been reading my very personal posts will probably "get it" immediately.
At one point I was snow skiing through some mountain woods with my friend Scott. At another point we were riding dirt bikes (motorcycles) through the woods in the fall.
We were exploring for new places and hills to go down.
Somewhere along the line, we got lost - really lost.
We wandered for a long time. Somehow, we got separated fairly early. In my lone wandering I got shot, probably by hunters but since I never saw anybody I didn't know.
I dared not to stop or sit down. All I knew was that I had to keep going or I'd be dead. That I had to keep going, that I had to push on despite the odds, despite, the pain, despite the lack of hope.
Somehow, I got shot several more times, I was now wounded in the left shoulder, the left bicep, the right shoulder, and the right leg. Miraculously, no major arteries or veins had been hit, but the pain was excruciating.
I don't think anyone was hunting me, I didn't feel persecuted.
I kept shambling on.
Finally, I made it to civilization. I was so focussed on keeping on my feet and moving through the pain that I wasn't terribly alert nor thinking very clearly.
I made it to my family. They were relieved to see that I was ok. They didn't seem to notice that I had been shot. Perhaps my cloths were so dirty they didn't see the blood?
Finally after quite a while, I explained that I needed to go to the emergency room, as I had been shot several times. They seemed surprised and shocked but called an ambulance.
In the back of the ambulance, I refused to lie down. I was scared that as soon as I lay down, as soon as I relaxed and keep willing myself forward that I would die. I knew I was a wreck, that my blood volume was low, that I hadn't eaten in days - but I couldn't let go.
So I stood in the back of the ambulance all the way to the emergency room.
In waiting room, I stood in front of the receiving desk. The lady wanted my name, my ID, my insurance card. I told her that I didn't know where my wallet was, that I had insurance, but that I had no time.
Finally, she got the message and admitted me. In one of the diagnosis rooms, they realized that I needed immediate surgery. They told me to lie down on the gurney. I told them I was scared to do so. I was scared that I'd pass out, that I'd fall apart, that I'd die.
They assured me I was in a hospital and that they could take care of me. I looked around the room and said, what about blood? I'm O+, shouldn't there be an I.V. ready for me? This room doesn't have anything. Despite my seeming ability to carry on a conversation, I was a mess. I couldn't think clearly, I couldn't let go, I was in a state of perpetual fear and shock.
Finally, they relented since my wounds were so severe, and I walked (assisted by doctors and nurses) to the surgery room; refusing to lie down until I saw that they were ready for me.
Even now, by the fluorescent lights in my cube in corporate america, the writing of this brought tears to my eyes.
I've said before that I'm worried I've forgotten how to relax, how to let go, how to reach out and find the joy that surrounds us all in every moment of life. In the last few months I've "remembered" for short periods of time, but it's like I regress to habits of pain and fear and worry. It feels as if there are deep ruts etched into the pathways of my brain and my wheels are trapped within them; that I can't break loose and take a different road.
I'm not much good alone most days or nights, and I'm only good with others to a limited extent on my better days.
I don't share these feelings out of the impression that I am special, or that my life is significant. I understand that my problems are small when compared to many people in this world. I realize that in the grand scheme of things I am rich in money, in friends, in learning, in freedoms. I don't have the difficulties of a single mother who is mostly unemployable struggling to juggle three jobs and 4 kids (that was my mom). I don't have the trials of people in countries torn by war and famine. I'm not bound to a wheelchair, fighting to breath.
I'm just a simple person who can't remember how to lie down.
I'm tired of this. I'm tired of feeling this way.
I miss the me that was carefree, energetic, and in love with life.