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    « Tales From The Other Side | Main | Her Door »

    Two Seventeen Seventeen

            Alone on the night of my birthday this past February, I cried so hard that my throat and lungs ached. My eyes were having the dry heaves as they drained my tear ducts faster than they could produce lubrication. Yes, this was the worst birthday of my life. I was in a self imposed prison. Solitary confinement of the heart, body, mind, and soul. It wasn't that I didn't have options; I chose to be by myself. Because I didn't feel worthy of human company.

           The day had started off more promising. In the morning, my former angel of love texted me. Just ninety days prior, we had planned to spend our lives together. She sweetly wrote me a quick happy birthday wish. I loved hearing from her - I always did - and, it brought up a storm of emotions. I wasn't doing so hot with dealing with emotions at that point. Anything that threatened me to feel was like heavy artillery on my heart. She was the atomic bomb. 

           Later that night, alone in the darkness of my condo, a fine place, but a place I no longer wanted to live in, everything I had been running from for the past few months crashed on me like a tsunami. I recalled celebrating birthdays in much grander fashion than my present state; alone, in my underwear, sweating from withdrawal, unkempt because I didn't care enough about my hygiene to shower or get dressed, crying myself dry. I recalled the many birthday parties my twin brother and I threw, with a live band, surrounded by people we loved, truly celebrating our lives together. My current experience could not be a more stark contrast. 

           I knew I had to make some changes. I had known that for a while. But I was dragging my ass on that. How the fuck did I get here? A few months ago, my life looked so different, I hardly recognized it as mine. 

           The lowest moment of my lowest birthday, the Marianna's Trench of My Soul, came when, in a fit of despair, I sprang up from the couch, screaming a sob from deep within, and practically ran to my closet. Moving quickly and hastily, as if I were trying to do something before I changed my mind, I opened my toolbox and grabbed a straight razor. I paused for a moment and looked at my left wrist, noting where my blue vein that lead into my hand was. Then I made a little cut, just to the right of that vein.

           I really don't know what the fuck I was thinking. It wasn't an attempt at suicide. I consciously didn't cut that hard or that deep. It didn't even qualify as a half-assed cry for help, because no one saw it, or even knows about it, until, well, right now as I write about it and share it. Maybe I just wanted to see how it felt. Maybe I just wanted to hurt myself even more; why not? At that moment in my life, hurting myself was the only thing I knew I was any good at, and I had been perfecting that skill for months. I watched the cut bleed for about a minute, then used some liquid bandaid and a piece of surgical tape to patch myself up. Then I went back to enjoying my misery.

           I can now look at that as a true turning point in my life. I didn't realize it in the moment, or even six days later, when I checked myself into detox at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital. 

           By the way, Saint Elizabeth's Hospital was where I was born, on February 17, 1963. 

           Well, Saint Elizabeth's Hospital was also where I was reborn. Detoxing there was the best decision I had made in months. And it was the beginning of a series of "divine convergences" (some people call them "amazing coincidence's") that continue to occur for me, even now, two months later.

           The cut on my wrist has left a scar. Hopefully, a scar that never goes away. Because I never want to forget that moment, that night, as long as I live. It is a physical imprint on my body and on my heart of where I have come from, and of where I will never, ever, go again. Moving forward, whenever I get down on myself, whenever there is a vast disparity between where I am at and where I want to be, I will look at that scar and remember how far I've come. And how grateful I am for the gift of desperation. 

           Please come with me again as I continue the story of my virtual rebirth in the following weeks here on my blog.

     ©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Puplishing. All Rights Reserved.


    Reader Comments (2)

    abc nice

    July 6, 2017 | Unregistered Commenterjack

    Thanx Jack.


    July 9, 2017 | Registered CommenterClint Piatelli

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