Grade 9 was an interesting year for me, first year of high school. I joined art club and I had my first boyfriend. He was a gifted guitarist, with long black hair and an Iron Maiden shirt. We dated off and on the whole year, but my father did not really approve. My father thought it would be better for me to just learn guitar myself and stay home, boyless. I promptly had two guitar lessons before my father decided that I should learn to take the bus there. I never went back. In reality, it may have been walkable if I had tried to figure it out, but this wasn’t the first activity that died because family didn’t want to drive me somewhere. I did learn a little, mostly playing while on the phone with a guy friend guitarist. Most of my time though, I spent studying science, drawing or on my computer.
In grade 11 shop class I hurt my hand, my left hand. I was using a band saw and accidently cut over a tiny knot. The one side chipped off and within half a second my hand went into the saw. It left what looked like an imprint of a golf ball. They sewed it up tightly and it took a year for me to make a fist again. I never played guitar after that. To this day it still feels weird when I make a fist and I don’t enjoy using my left hand.
My first and only year in university was rough. My mother was constantly calling me freaking out. My father used me being away as an exit sign. My roommates were nice but I was in the hardest program. They didn’t really understand Saturday morning classes.It just wasn’t great. I ended up doing a six week outpatient program through the hospital there and was diagnosed with PTSD from previous trauma. I was put on antidepressants and sleeping pills. Over the next few months I kept feeling worse, and kept complaining to my psychiatrist about it. Every time he upped the dose, ever single time. It was at the point where my dose was increasing every week or two weeks but I wasn’t even going in. I was just going to the gym and going home. I was dieting, losing weight, studying and spending every day alone. In hindsight, I think the meds weren’t a good match for me and were making me sicker. Or they worked well like speed and I was addicted to them. I wasn’t even sure if I was getting sicker, but I knew I was getting a bit fucked up on them.
One day, I tried to kill myself. I had been suicidal off and on my whole life so this wasn’t so new. I had a boyfriend when I left for university and he called me to tell me he fucked one of my friends. My first suicide attempt and this one felt very similar. It was sudden. It was impulsive. I wasn’t even that sad. I have no idea. I just know I took the rest of my sleeping pills with some milk, which I’m allergic to. Luckily, I drank enough milk that I threw up some. I can’t honestly say I was that heartbroken over this guy. It was more of 1) I think the drugs were making me high and I wasn’t in my right mind and 2) I was really at the end of my rope with everyone. I had been very let down by everyone and the fact that it was with a friend, a friend that I had slept with myself. It was too twisted. It was cruel.
A couple hours after I hung up on him, he checked up on me. I was fucked up on sleeping pills and he had me rushed to the hospital. I was there basically overnight, sleeping. In the morning I told the doctor I freaked out over a boyfriend, it was stupid, I don’t care anymore, and I regret it. My memory is kind of foggy after that. I have no idea how I got home. I do remember the nurse kept trying to make me leave, saying they needed the bed, but I was so tired I kept falling asleep. The first three months were the worst. I fell down the stairs, a lot. The next psychiatrist I saw thinks I had brain damage. I know that I had PTSD memory issues before, but they seemed worse. My motor skills were ruined. I managed to improve my gross motor skills for the most part before I got home from university. I did get a couple bad bruises falling down the stairs after I got home, but I started dating a body builder, who trained me at the gym, and I got more coordinated.
The thing I didn’t realize, the thing that I find the hardest now, is my fine motor skills are not great. My hands get shaky when I try to do some small things. I was excited to learn ASL until I tried doing the alphabet and was horrified. I’m relearning painting and drawing. Taking a ten year hiatus didn’t help. I bought a new guitar but I know it will be much harder to learn than it was pre-band saw, pre-OD. I have no idea if there is any real life point to all this but it feels cathartic. It feels like I am healing my mind and body.
Sometimes I wonder if I was supposed to go into art instead of science, but then I think of how my son has a rare autoimmune disease. When he was sick I did do a lot of research, and I do feel like I had a good base for understanding what I was reading. Maybe everything happens for a reason. Maybe this is how everything was suppose to end up. Me, starting from scratch, starting over.