We’re coming up on my third birthday. Obviously, not my real third birthday, but the third anniversary of the day I died (twice, and came back to life). That was September 3rd, 2021, and it’s a day forever etched in my mind. Which is funny because I don’t remember any of it. My brother has told me at some length what happened, but I don’t remember any of it. The last thing I actually remember is messaging with Ian the day before about Nioh 2. After the expercience when I was home and scrolling through my messages to him, I did remember that.
When my brother and Ian told me what happened, it was as if I was listening to a story about someone else. It’s really weird to hear about it when I have no recollection about it. I only know about it as a fait accompli. I read the last page of the story without reading the beginning. Or rather, the hundredth or so page because it was NOT the end of my story.
I have to say, though, that the high I felt for the first year has almost completely faded. When I first woke up, I was amazed and delighted to still be alive (once I digested what had happened to me). One simply cannot live in that heightened state continuously, though, and it was inevitable that the high would wear off. Frankly, it’s amazing that it lasted a year, to be honest.
For that first year, though, I was high on life. This was strange for me because I’m a pessimistic person by nature. I try to rein it in, but it bleeds out at my edges. I see the negative in everything, which is partly the way I was raised. My mother is the same way, which is who I get it from. She will always point out the negative and complain about it. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I, on the other hand, am very aware that I do it. It doesn’t stop me from thinking it, but I try to keep it under wraps. It doesn’t often work.
For my first rebirth year, I walked around full of gratitude and awe. I marveled at the smallest thing such as how gorgeous the view outside my living room window looked. Ice cold water was so good as well. In fact, my brotehr teased me in the hospital beacuse I kept asking for ice water and then raving about how good it was. He laughed and told me that I did not have to thank them for bringing me water; it was their job. I retorted that it wasn’t their job to bring me a glass of water every few hours and even if it was, it didn’t hurt to thank them for being so attentive.
I was like a toddler in that everything was new and exciting to me. Yes, it was partly the drugs (I cannot stress enough how high I was), but it was also me grappling with the knowledge that I should not have been there. I started calling it my bonus time, and I was so appreciative of every second. It really is whaat I imagine a baby would feel like once they became conscious to life around them.
“Look at my foot wiggling! I’m doing that! Cool!”
I was enraptured by every sunrise (and was actually up early enough to see them for once) and every sunset, as well as by the simple things of day-to-day life. This lasted the first year of my rebirth and about halfway into my second year. Then, it started to fade away as was to be expected.
Before my medical crisis, I was deeply depressed and highly anxious as well. After my medical crisis, the depression went down by 90% and the anxiety by 60%. I was amazed at how content I was, nay, how thrilled I was to be alive. Which also faded away in time.
A year later, I would have said my depression rose maybe 10% and my anxiety the same amount. Which is still not bad! Depression at 1/5th the amount it used to be and anxiety halved. I could live with that. It was fine. My threshold for ‘terrible’ was drastically different than what it had been before my medical emergency. A terrible short-term memory when I used to have a great memory? No problem. I was just happy to be alive. Couldn’t do math in my head any longer? No worries. I could just write it down on paper. Or on computer.
Now, however, the little things are getting to me. To be fair to me, there have been big things in my life, too. Something happened in late February that I still don’t want to talk about, but it has irrevocably changed my life. I still haven’t completely come to grips with it, but I’m doing better. However, it’s done a number on my mental health. I know I am depressed because of it. Grieving is natural, but it’s slipping past that.
In addition, my father’s descent into dementia has been hell. I’m not there, obviously, but every time my mother calls, it’s so painful to listen. Real talk: I hate talking to her in general because she uses me as her emotional support person. I get a knot in the pit of my stomachbecause I know she’s going to complain for the next halff hour. I can’t exactly blame her now because her life is hard.
But.
And I say this with as much compassion as I can possibly muster. She makes it so much harder for herself than it needs to be. It’s who she is, and I should not be surprised at this point, but still. Here’s the thing. Dementia/Alzheimer is considered a moral failing in Taiwan. Because of this, my mother tries not to tell anyone about it. In addition, my father is a narcissist who only cares about how he looks to others. This makes it even harder for my mother to talk about it over there.
She told me about how she mentioned something about my father’s condition to a friend of hers at church. The ‘friend’ immediately ran and told my father. If that actually happened, then it’s a terrible thing. That’s not a good friend, and my mother should shun her. My mother won’t, which is another issue, but not one I want to get into right now. Now, note I said ‘if’. Why? Because my mother is the master of telling a story in such a way to make her seem like the ultimate victim. It could have happened the way she said it did, but it also could have been that she complained about it to the friend and the friend thought she was being helpful by bringing it up with my father. Like if my mother was complaining about how hard it was to take care of my father, and the friend gently suggested to my father that maybe he could, I don’t know, watch TV for an hour or so.
I’m not saying that’s exactly what happened, but it’s just as feasible as what my mother told me happened. She is really good at leaving spaces in her story where she doesn’t want to tell on herself.
That’s all for now. More tomorrow.