Haven

I’ve been staring at the wall for five hours now, or more I can’t keep track of it anymore. I’ve tried to write something, anything; a billion times in the last two years but ever since I came face to face with death, it’s like death couldn’t take me but it did take something, my words. I reminisce about the time when writing was as easy as breathing, but now, neither breathing nor writing is easy.

I sigh, stare longingly at the wall one last time and try to get back up on my feet, both literally and metaphorically. I lost my job as a magazine editor, my ability to breathe without the support of a BiPAP, my words and to some extent and the worst, my mind. It happened when I rammed my car into a truck, two years ago.

 I have a job interview a few minutes from now, but I doubt if I’ll do well.

 A few basic questions about my previous experiences and my achievements and that was it, the interview. Although I think it went pretty well but I know the company won’t be hiring me, judging by their sympathetic faces as soon as I entered the room, they may like my resume but hiring me wasn’t their plan. They probably see me as a liability, considering the condition of my lungs. I’m used to this by now- the sorry faces, the sympathy and all the “I understand your situation” s as if that would make me feel any better. I’ve lost all hope and I feel like a burden to everyone; I’m broke, I have no job, I have too many debts and no way of paying them off and at this point, I think the only thing that would make me happy is either dying or doing the only thing that I truly love, writing but these days that too seems impossible. So, dying it is then.

I decide to go to the nearest drugstore to buy a bottle of Tylenol. Although if I got rid of my BiPAP, I’d die a slow and painful death. But I don’t want that; I want it to be quick. Hence, I decide to overdose on Tylenol, one of the most common over-the-counter drug that could kill you.

I buy it, but just a few moments later I change my mind and toss the bottle of Tylenol in the nearest trash can.

“just another crazy day, doesn’t mean I’ll end my life”

But the truth is, every single day since the accident has been crazy. Or at least I tell myself it is, maybe it isn’t; maybe my life’s eternally and irreversibly messed up.

I turn around the corner and see my quaint, tiny house. Coming back to my house every evening after work used to be pure bliss, but now, I dread stepping foot inside.

I open the front door and look around my living room. Every single thing reminds me of the past 10 years. I can’t bear to look at it. It’s traumatising, really. Looking at all these things that stand testimony to my passion for writing. I cannot take it. I tear down every single thing from the walls, stuff all my books inside boxes, strip the entire room of its belongings.

“a clean slate”

Maybe it will help, after all.

I bring out an old, dusty table from the garage and set it upright in the middle of the room. I buy some croton plants and line the walls with them. I found this old record player a few days back, and I put it in the room's corner.

The next day I buy some old Nirvana and Pink Floyd records. I’m not really a big fan of them, I’ve always been more of a Mozart and Chopin kind of person, but maybe trying out new music is also for the best.

“a clean slate, a change of scenery and a change of music.”

That’s what I need.

That’s what my mind and my soul needs.

Probably.

“it’s all for the best” I say to myself and look at my new workspace.

I sit down on my desk immediately and start scribbling out ideas, just like I used to do back in the day but still, no matter how hard I try; I can’t really write anything worthwhile.

I give up.

Again.

A clean slate, a change of scenery and a change of music weren’t of any use.

I bolt out of the house and walk straight ahead. I keep on walking for lord knows how many hours. It was almost midnight when I saw a neon sign. The sign read, “haven: open 24 hours”.

I walk into “haven” which happened to be a diner and was really crowded considering the fact that it was almost midnight. I find a table in the corner and sit there, one of the staffs’ asked me if I was ready to order. I told her that I didn’t want to eat anything.

“I’d just like to sit here, if that’s okay? I’ll pay you 7 bucks per hour.”

The staff agreed.

I sat there and stared at all the people coming in, going about their business. I know it is a kind of stalker-ish behaviour but I had nothing better to do and I had already lost all hopes for anything, everything.

 Everyone had something to hide, something at risk, something to lose. Yet, they were all there; at “haven”, some after working all day, some just beginning their work for the day, some were there to drown their sorrows, some were there to celebrate their happiness.

I get up suddenly, walk up to the cashier and pay him the 21 bucks for the 3 hours I spent there.

It is 3 AM, the air outside is cold and crisp. But the cold doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m filled with a newfound warmth, confidence.

I take a cab home.

I take out a notebook and at first just write the word, “haven” and stare at it for a few seconds. Words start flowing out of my pen and onto the paper in no time at all. It’s just like it was before.

It is 5 AM and I’ve finished writing my first work after over 2 years. I feel satisfied, whole. Now the words and I don’t know how, but breathing both come easy.

After more than 2 years, I finally go to bed without feeling hollow inside.

After more than 2 years, I finally am happy again.