I suppose most people who come close to death at some point in their lives feel as though they've remained on earth for some reason. God or the universe decided that it's "not your time" or something. I used have stronger feelings about that than I do now, but I still feel that I have a job to do, in some sense. I need to help people or something. Share my experiences, use my mistakes and triumphs to teach others. I just called Shriner's hospital to inquire about volunteering, but of couse the woman I wanted to talk to has the day off. It is a holiday.
Today more than any other day I think too much. I force myself to remember things I'd rather not. Trying to put together faces and rooms and de-fog my memories from that time period. Twelve years ago today my right leg was removed as a last resort to save my life. The pills I took on February 12, 1998 with two of my then-best friends had poisoned my body, and the poison was concentrated in that leg. The muscles couldn't be saved. I don't really remember anything for about week after that day. I woke up with tubes everywhere and stump wrapped in bandages. And, truth be told, I wasn't upset about my leg, at least not at that moment. I thought I was dead. And then slowly I woke up and I wasn't dead. I was alive and my whole family was around me. Sure, I was pretty fucked up; tubes coming out of both ends, looking like a skeleton, and this stump where my leg used to be-- but I wasn't dead.
And now it's twelve years later, and what am I doing? I have an office job, a boyfriend, live in a nice progressive community... but I feel like I should be doing more. I should be famous by now, shouldn't I? People should have heard my story and been inspired, right? I should be writing other stories, and working with kids, and teaching people.
Why do I feel like my life has some special meaning?
