Learning How to Speak Again: Part 1, The Night I Fell

No offense, but I don't want to be here right now.

This post has been sitting here, empty, since September 9th.

I don't want to write.

I don't want to.

But it is such an integral part of how I process life, learn to understand people, and grow deeper into an awareness of who I am and why I am, that sometimes it must be forced. No matter how uncomfortable.

I won't lie to you. I am incredibly uncomfortable right now. I've just spent twenty minutes googling "mindfulness exercises" and "how to get rid of resentment" and "why do I feel so upset for no reason".

The truth is, I've been upset for some time, I've just been squishing it into some hollow part of myself and closing the door on it. I've tried to stay busy. Since I graduated college in May, I've tried to fill my time with as much work, exercise, and observation as possible.

By observation I mean I've finally brought myself out of the finance textbooks and excel spreadsheets to take a look at the (so called) "real world".

And again - I won't lie - I don't like what I see. Maybe the world I'm in is different from the one my professors promised me. And maybe that's my fault. But I can't begin to describe the torture of going from one job interview to the next, wondering what future awaits me at the end of all this "fake it until I make it" nonsense.

Add on top of that, the bitter end of a year and a half relationship and subsequent waltz into another shit-show starred in by men... and you can see why I might not feel like writing.

Who wants to write when all you feel is either "this is some bullshit" or "what the heck is happening" or, even worse, "damn, I really don't like myself right now."

That's where I've been at, I just haven't really allowed myself to think about it. I just really couldn't think about it.

And then, two weeks ago, I woke up in an ambulance and REALLY couldn't think.

"What's your name, sweetie?" The paramedics asked me. "Do you know what happened to you tonight?"

I did not know. In fact, I knew less than I've ever known in my entire life. I don't know if that feeling is the reality that babies exist in before they can talk, but it's the closest thing I can compare it to, and just thinking about that feeling makes me want to let out a wail that would put newborns to shame.

I don't know if you've ever forgotten everything you ever knew, but I have. It is the most terrifying feeling in the world not to be able to say your own name or unlock your phone. I had a sinking feeling deep inside me that I was someone, but who? It was like waking up and realizing that while you slept, the entire world around you has shifted and you are now lost in it, unsure of yourself, unsure of everything.

"You have a pretty serious injury, your head is bleeding pretty badly."

I didn't know what this EMT was talking about, but I recognized something on his face - concern, maybe even fear. And it resonated into me and I also began to feel fear.

"Who are you?" They asked again.

Inside me I felt the answer, I felt it swelling behind my rib cage and pulsing through my veins. I felt it - I just couldn't say it. Words did not exist inside me any more at all. All that existed was adrenaline, sensation, panic, and uncertainty.

I could go into more detail about that night, and sometime I will. But suffice to say, it was an entirely unique experience unlike anything else, and the moment I will never forget is one where I finally remembered my name.

"What is your name?"

My heart raced, I felt something rushing from deep inside the core of me to the surface. Those seconds before I was able to finally speak lasted for decades. I can only imagine it as what they mean when they say your life "flashes before your eyes." I felt everything (somehow) but I could say nothing. I knew what it all was (love, fear, joy, sorrow) but couldn't comprehend any of it. It was the most overwhelming moment I've ever experienced.

And then: "Sarah."

It was like hearing my voice for the first time. "Sarah Kane."

As words came back to me I was able to start shedding that intense knowing from my body. My brain could know, so that my body wouldn't have to.

That was 16 days ago.

Four days in the hospital and another ten days in bed at my parents' house gave me a lot of time to feel. In fact, I felt more than I have in years. And the flood of feeling overwhelmed me. For days I felt like I was suffocating.

And slowly, over these days, I learned how to speak again. To put words to the discomfort I am experiencing. To recognize the resentments and the pain that live deep inside me. That jealousy seething behind my eyes. The grief weighing like a rock on top of my heart. The fear squirming like a drowning fish, tripped behind my rib cage. The loneliness - the sadness - squeezing my lungs like an angry hand.

And as I slowly came face to face with these characters, I realized something very important.

I was going to have to name them. Address them. Give them a voice so they could speak, rather than tearing me apart from the inside out.

And, so, I'm going to.

I don't want to. But I want to feel better. I want to heal. I'll be doing that here. Not for validation from my readers, or to be seen and heard, but because there is no shame in honesty. My hope is that when I write about the pain, it'll be like that moment in the ambulance when I finally remember (and could say) my name.

See you next time, folks.