If Only

(CW/TW: contains elements of death, substance abuse, and emotional abuse)

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Is this thing working? Test, test, test. Yes, okay. Umm, right. Here goes nothing.

So the doctor tells me I should record some of this shit. According to her, I’ll look back on these events with appreciation for my health improvements. I assume she asks patients to do this out of hubris for her work as a plastic surgeon. Likely, she wants us to recall how bad things were before her aiding entrance. Cue Superman theme here. 

I brought the idea up to my assigned psychiatrist, just one among multi-faceted team here to mend Humpty-Dumpty. He wasn’t opposed, noting it could help me grasp the trauma and pinpoint the finer elements that might slip away with time. “It’s like a dream journal to catch the momentary, somnolent wisps of imagery as we awaken,” he told me with a smile attempting to sympathize. “It can help you keep him alive in your memories while moving through your own healing.” I mean really, who talks like that anyway?

Others on my team, the orthopedic and oral surgeon, had little input on the matter. They’d done their work, hiding the hardwear below the surface. “If the psychiatrist agrees, then perhaps it wouldn’t hurt,” my oral surgeon mentioned after a rushed consultation the other morning. I didn’t mill this over long, especially since he’d mispronounced my last name.

Well docs, here’s the thing. I agree there are dreams I can’t recall in the morning. But I don’t tend to lose the nightmares. You know, the ones that lurch us from slumber. With hearts racing, our eyes move frantically about the room. We hope to latch on to reality before fear returns. Returns, or perhaps never leaves. 

I doubt there will be much that I don’t remember about this ordeal. Situated in this hospital bed, I try to distract myself. Television can’t do it. Books can’t do it. There are no visitors, so there’s been little distraction in that regard. Every now and then, I get a craving for alcohol. Until I remember the role it’s played.

Sometimes, for a split second, I glance at the mirror across the room and fail to recognize myself among the wires and bandages. And in that moment, I lose the weight. I lose the guilt. But it’s just a passing thing before reality floods in again. You see, that is the dream that fades as my everyday nightmare returns. 

So I’m reworking the doctor’s orders a bit. Instead, let me cast a line back to my earlier years. It may not be healthy to dwell on the past, but I sure as hell wish that I could alter a few things here and there. These, then, are my thoughts for a former self as I lay broken physically and mentally. 

To my four-year-old self…

…never feel ashamed to be you. If you like wearing those red heels in mom’s closet, then go for it! Dad will get angry and mom won’t understand. They’re older, conserved, and set in their ways. 

But that’s for them to deal with. And though you’ll be punished, I wish I could impart that there is no reason to cry alone at night hoping to not feel the way you do.

To my twelve-year-old self…

…erase your search history. Yes, you know the time I’m referencing. When dad found some, how did he put it, “disgusting shit” on the computer. And as he proceeded to figuratively wipe your nose in this shit, he insisted that such actions would, “kill your mother,” and, “ruin our family.” 

To my fifteen-year-old self…

…take a chance. He’ll catch your eye. You’ll exchange glances on your way to AP Biology as he heads to Study Hall. He’s on the soccer team but you’re in the orchestra. He sports broad shoulders while you have scrawny legs. You’ll convince yourself that it will never work. Still, he glances and smiles when your eyes meet. 

Perhaps it’s the fear of shame. The fear of being outed. The fear of rejection. Collectively, these keep you closed off to the idea of saying, “hey”. Maybe it would go poorly. But maybe, just maybe, it would go well. Maybe it would give you the boost of confidence needed to keep you from other vices. 

To my seventeen-year-old self…

…never discount the times you spend with your little brother. Instead of forming a close relationship with the liquor cabinet, invest in him. 

Help him with his homework when he asks. Go to the track meets mom and dad can’t make. Take him out to eat and talk with him about the deeper things. His dreams, his goals, his aspirations and interests. 

Alcohol is a temporary fix but a sibling and companion can offer so much more for much longer. 

To my twenty-year-old self…

…don’t get in the car. Need I say more? He’ll call to ask for a ride home. You’ll have had a few shots as usual. 

Maybe the keys will be gone or lost? Nope, they’re out in plain sight ready for takeoff. Maybe the car won’t have much gas? Nope, it has a full tank. Maybe he’ll find another friend to offer a lift? Nope, he trusts you…he trusts you with his life.

If only you’d fallen asleep before the call. If only the bottle of gin had been a few shots less or better yet empty. If only you’d managed to stop at the red light. If only the roads had been empty that evening. 

If only. There’s a lot to unpack in those two words. Not just around the evening I lost my brother but even going farther back. I mean, would I have turned to drinking so early if I had accepted myself? If I’d taken the chance with a kiss at fifteen? If I’d wiped my history and never heard how ashamed my parents were of my twelve-year-old secret sexuality? If I’d worn those heels a few more times and embraced myself?

So docs, I ask you this. How do you begin to live life again? I argue that nothing good can come to me by rehashing these events. You may think you’ve done your best, but fixing up Humpty Dumpty can’t reverse the fall. You can patch up my wounds, attempt to erase the scars. But can you rewind the clock? Can you bring my brother back?

If only? If only it were me.

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