I'm sharing this video because it's the last thing I posted to YouTube in early 2021. It's one of my own songs. Shortly after posting, a long descent into the void of lost humanity that was as difficult to understand as it is to remember began. What followed was a total disconnect from music, friendship, love, fatherhood, self-awareness, my internal monologue, and any semblance of hope I had previously possessed. I know what it's like to lose my mind completely. This period of living death lasted 3 years. "Lucky" doesn't cover it. I really shouldn't be here.
In the early morning hours of July 17, 2023, I was thankful for the sunrise. The light carried with it a burst of sudden clarity. It was terrifying. I scanned my surroundings. In all directions, there was only a dense forest. Then I noticed the stabbing pain. I knew instantly that I had broken ribs. I vaguely remember taking a hard fall, landing on my chest across a fallen tree. The visibility of sunlight provided me the opportunity to take inventory of my body. My clothes were caked in mud. My sneakers and socks were saturated by stagnant swamp water. My legs and arms were ripped to shreds by briars.
I reached into my pockets, hoping to find cigarettes. The pockets of my muddied shorts were empty. No cigarettes, no wallet, no phone. Badly injured, exhausted, lost, and confused; I did my best to focus what was left of my mind on survival instead of panic.
My phone would have been of little use anyway. I didn't know my location. Approximate? Sure. I was cognizant of my starting point. Given the thickness of the wooded area I found myself in, screaming for help would have been wasted energy. I wasn't completely sober, but adrenaline counters alcohol quite effectively. Taking the deepest breath I could inhale was a mistake. I screamed loudly at the trees. Again, no one could hear me.
I chose a random direction to walk in, clumsily making my way through a marsh, up hills, over slippery rocks and logs, and through more briar patches. It was necessary to change direction often. At times, the brush was too thick to push through. I stumbled in wide circles, getting nowhere. It occurred to me that I was totally fucked. I know the overwhelming persistence of survival instinct well. It's what life has forced upon me.
As I wandered, I tried to remember if I had driven to wherever it was I now found myself. I couldn't rationalize clearly. The hope was to find my car parked safely at Whitaker Park in Martinsburg, NY, about 2 miles from my childhood home.
I drove there after an argument with my girlfriend. It was a common occurrence. Whether I left on my own accord or was told to became a contentious subject, never to be resolved. We are no longer together. I had been drinking before I left that evening. It was the catalyst of the conflict.
I travelled an estimated forty miles to the park to sleep in my car for the night, stopping at a convenience store to purchase a 30-pack of some panther piss beer and lighter fluid. The cheap beer had a high alcohol content. I preferred that, never much caring about taste. When I drank, it was for the buzz. Once at the park, I started a fire and continued drinking.
My memory goes blank after the fireside drinking. Hours were lost. I blacked out. My problem with alcohol is undeniable. I am still paying for it legally. That's another story. I am in recovery now, and have been for almost 11 months.
This was certainly not my first blackout. I'd been drinking to the point of amnesia since I was around 18 years old, off and on. This one was a different beast entirely. It's one thing to wake up next to a naked stranger with hangover regrets. Experiencing a fugue state is another matter; a far more serious situation than ill-advised, dumb sex.
Negligently prescribed psych meds, the volatility of my relationship, and the drunken, impotent rage induced by the conflict were all significant contributing factors. I'm still grappling with the trauma left behind by perpetually toxic living conditions. Some were self induced. Others weren’t.
I will never know why I walked into the woods that night, or where my intended destination may have been. It doesn't make sense, even now. To an extent, I'm glad it doesn't make sense. Maybe it's better that way.
If I made this a post about my drinking history, it would be too lengthy to hold anyone's interest. The brief synopsis is for context. Every drunk has "war stories". Mine are no more compelling than anyone else's.
Eventually, I spied what appeared to be a clearing in the brush at the top of a steep hill. I summoned what little strength I had left in my battered body to make my way toward it. My eyes and instincts betrayed me several times that morning, believing I noticed several clearings, only to discover more thickets in front of me. I was desperate. This was my oasis.
I scaled the hill and gazed upon a vast cornfield at the summit. I wept. I felt relief, despite the excruciating pain and fatigue that accompanied it. Cornfields lead to roads. Every drunken country bumpkin knows that. Tractors must be able to get in there. It's common knowledge.
My sense of direction improved slightly. I was confident I would soon come out to a road. I didn't know which one though. Studying the direction of the tractor tire treads in the mud, I pressed forward. It was a much easier hike than trudging through the deep woods. For that I was grateful. Still, my breathing was erratic and shallow. I took several necessary breaks along the way.
I wondered how many ribs I had broken. Beads of blood flowed down my lower legs and into the wet dirt. Walking through the field took longer than expected. Eventually, I reached the end of it, only to contend with another stretch of trees and brush. Luckily, it was a short traverse. I slid on my ass down a wet embankment. Civilization stretched out before me.
I knew exactly where I was. It was about 2 miles from the campsite I had strayed from. The road was State Route 12, across from a corporate farm in East Martinsburg. I never expected that the mere sight of asphalt would bring such joy.
My trip back to the campground would be no easy feat in my condition. What if my car wasn't even there? My options were limited. Hitchhiking was out. I looked like a psychotic killer from some low-budget hillybilly horror movie. The psychotic part was accurate.
I turned right onto Whitaker Road. The pitch of the hill I needed to ascend was formidable. Even uninjured, it would have been unpleasant. I struggled to keep moving, often resting with my hands on my knees and gasping for oxygen.
Clinging to consciousness, I continued, averting collapse. I couldn't remember the night before, but the challenge of that incline will be forever etched into my subconscious. The temperature outside rose steadily with the rising of the sun. I pressed on. It was pure fucking hell.
As I crossed the threshold of the campground entrance, (an archway) my anxiety peaked. Would I find my vehicle there? Being badly injured, I understood that more foot travel could be dangerous. My strength reserves were already depleted. Fortitude has its limits.
My mind was suddenly flooded with "what ifs". Had I abandoned my vehicle? What were the chances that the police had intervened? Were they searching for me now? Did my car get towed away? Did my girlfriend give a shit about my wellbeing? Total exhaustion was affecting my thought processes.
The adrenaline dissipated, allowing the extent of my physical pain to be fully appreciated. Never had I coveted sleep with such fervor. I breathed a weakened sigh of relief as I reached my campsite. There was my Honda, waiting where I had left it. The Universe relented.
My campsite was strewn with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The fire I had built the evening before had burned to ashes hours before. I leaned against the car and cried.
Inside, I found my wallet, phone, and most importantly, the pack of cigarettes I had purchased in Lowville on my way to Whitaker Park. I lit up a smoke before checking my phone. Priorities. I quit smoking in the fall of 2019, picking up vaping as a substitute. In times of stress, I would sometimes choose tobacco. Familiarity I guess. It's not uncommon.
I counted the empty cans. With my tolerance for alcohol considered, it wasn't many empties. I picked up after myself. The cans were thrown into the back of my car. The butts went into the fire pit. Even in a crisis, I still felt some guilty responsibility for my carbon footprint. I don't litter. I committed more serious crimes like DWI.
As I lifted the hatch of my CRV to toss the empty cans inside, I quickly noticed there were plenty of unopened beers left. Without thinking, I popped the top of a piss-warm pilsner and sucked it down hastily.
I suppose the logic behind it (or lack thereof) was to dull the sharp, stabbing pain radiating through my ribcage enough for sleeping. I downed a couple more for good measure. In those days, I could polish off a can of beer in about three gulps.
Closet drinkers consume their poison rapidly. Attempting to hide substance abuse of any type requires precision and an opportunistic mindset. My ability to deceive effectively never developed. I don’t expect anyone to understand this behavior. I no longer identify with it either.
I reluctantly unlocked my phone. It was around 9:30 AM (ish). No new messages from my girlfriend. There was a forgotten (by me), extremely heated exchange of texts from the night before waiting for review. She had stopped responding. I continued messaging angrily before giving up. My words were ugly, mean-spirited, and disorganized. Drunk texting will make a fool of anyone.
When I read those messages, my remorse was immediate. I mentally retreated to my usual state of self-loathing. After all, my drinking was the triggering event. I was too tired for meaningful reflection. I gingerly worked my broken body onto the back seat of my CRV and closed my eyes.
The hot Tug Hill air was thick with swarms of mosquitos. Keeping the bloodsuckers outside of the cab of my Honda proved impossible. I was half asleep and swatting blindly, only succeeding at beating the shit out of myself even more.
The temperature had risen to an oppressive level, but I decided that opening windows was a terrible idea. Instead, I exited the vehicle and stripped down to my boxers at a public campground in broad daylight, inviting more mosquito bites, and probably some dirty looks in the process.
The other campers were awakening from their slumbers and starting their day as I struggled to get some rest. I drifted off for about an hour. The inevitable tings of incoming text messages disturbed my catatonic solitude. I silenced my phone and continued trying to sleep.
At age 49, my ability to camp comfortably in the back seat of a car was already compromised. It was rendered impossible by broken ribs and unrelenting flying insects. As much as I needed rest, it became clear that it wasn’t happening.
Rising to a seated position was no small undertaking. I had stiffened up. Wincing and wrestling with my beleaguered husk of an existence vessel without the assistance of core muscles took several pathetic attempts.
After a long period of radio silence, I reached for my phone again. Sure enough, there were multiple new texts, several missed calls, and an angry voicemail threatening to call the cops if I didn't respond immediately. I laughed a little. Where would she send the authorities without a location to work with? I would later learn more about cell phone tower pinging. Upon reflection, I definitely benefited from her lack of genuine concern and empathy. It was a bluff. Police presence would have made an already dismal situation far worse. Cops have a knack for that.
When I called my girlfriend, the conversation went as expected. I answered her questions. She was obviously pissed off. My shame was equally transparent. I told her I couldn't drive until I rested. It was not well-received information. She was at work and sounded very annoyed by it all. Her speech was monotone.
I didn't know if we had broken up or not, which was an established precedent in our relationship for years. Not being told to stay gone was the only indication I had that we continued to be an item. Communication was never a strong skill between us. I apologized for the texts I had sent the night before, sincerely. I regretted the texts.
I was done trying to sleep. I prepared for the trip back to her house by guzzling a couple more beers before embarking on yet another semi-inebriated drive of shame. I bought coffee at the store I stopped at the evening before.
I can't even quantify how many times we did this as a couple over a 6-year span. I spent the majority of our relationship in relative sobriety. Not that it matters. I've spent the majority of my adult life abstaining from booze. Really. The relapses have been catastrophic. My worst moments always negated the good things I had done, not just for her, but for almost everyone I had ever known in my life. My drinking was the bridge-burning kind. The bridges were never structurally sound to begin with. I have a better working understanding of that now.
The roles of pariah, scapegoat, and black sheep became comfortable for me with practice. I used to believe I deserved the loathesome treatment I received. I don't project that anymore. In whatever tense I’m speaking or writing in, I now give myself a realist’s element of grace. I deserved better. Everyone does.
I don’t blame others for my fuck ups, but being fair to me, they were often reactionary. It seems I know a lot of perfect people. They are slowly becoming footnotes in my story. I offer no apologies for establishing new, more stringent boundaries.
When I arrived at my destination (the house I only refer to now as "hers"), I appreciated the serenity of temporary silence. I stood in the driveway, smoking more cigarettes, and drinking beer. My emotions were mixed about entering the dwelling. I knew what was coming. Eventually, I summoned the mental and physical strength to go inside. I left the items I had packed the previous evening in the car: clothing, firewood, some snacks, and the cheap nasty beer.
I fell asleep quickly in our bed. She shook me awake upon arrival. I don't remember the discussion in detail because it wasn't significant. I fucked up again and was scolded for the offense. Typical.
I snuck outside several times that evening to drink what had become hot swill. She was happy to share the cigarettes. My night was spent writhing and moaning in pain beside her in our bed. No compassion. I was ignored as she flipped the pages of her book with indifference. No offer to drive me to the hospital. I did this all to myself, right? I understood. Taking 4 Ibuprophen dulled the pain enough for almost decent sleep.
She left for work before I woke up. The cigarettes were gone, so I resumed vaping. Another dose of Ibuprophen kicked in. It was harsh but manageable pain. I made the decision to drive myself to the Emergency Department in Watertown. My motivations were pretty simple. I needed an x-ray to be taken out of work for medical reasons. I didn’t think a whole lot that could be done for broken ribs. Others have shared with me that broken ribs are extremely painful. I've felt worse, honestly.
Maybe some prescription painkillers would be prescribed (the good stuff). Mainly, I just wanted the work note. I was floundering at my job, missing many days because of migraines, a bout of vertigo, and unexplained vomiting in the morning. This happened often. I had exhausted my reserve of PTO months ago and started taking days off without pay. The criticism was more direct at home than at work. My short paychecks were not appreciated.
My girlfriend would often ask questions like, “Do you think you’re an asset or a liability in this relationship?” I’m sure living with me at that time felt like a burden to her. I refused to answer such questions.
I drove myself to the hospital and parked on the 2nd level of the parking garage. The Ibuprophen was wearing off and my stroll to the emergency room was slow and laborious. I nervously hit my vape on the way in.
Once inside, I checked in at registration, described my affliction, offered my insurance card, then took a seat in the waiting room. I scrolled Facebook on my phone, bored. I notified my girlfriend about being there and received a short reply. Something banal, like “ok".
Waiting is hard for me to endure with ADHD. I was becoming increasingly annoyed as time elapsed. I thought about leaving, but I really wanted that note for work. To be fair, I didn't wait very long. I was just impatient.
A tech ushered me to the Radiology Department. I returned to the waiting room while the films were process and analyzed. The wait was pretty short, about 10 minutes. Another tech summoned me for a CT scan. I found the efficiency and thoroughness odd. A CT for broken ribs? Seemed excessive. No more waiting room. I was taken swiftly to yet another room inside the Emergency Department. As everyone knows, this is usually where the real waiting begins. That didn't happen. I didn't wait at all.
My room became a frenetic beehive of doctors and nurses upon my arrival. I noticed the concerned, somewhat panicked expressions on their faces. There was a a soft spoken elder nurse who offered comfort. She spoke in a motherly tone. Why? My curiousity increased as another nurse fitted an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. In my mind, I was breathing just fine. Shallow, but fine.
A third nurse inserted an IV into a vein on the back of my hand. Morphine was administered. I felt the warm rush of opiate flush through my body. For a moment, it was nice, but I became nauseous from the suddenly injected euphoria. Opiates are not my preferred flavor. Two doctors conferred quietly in the corner of the room. One of them walked to the edge of the bed to speak to me directly.
"We're moving you upstairs. Dr. (I can't recall his name) is going to take care of you. you should start to feel much better after", he exclaimed in a professional, but compassionate voice.
"Upstairs? Where? What's going on? Are my ribs broken", I asked. My mind was now percolating with anxiety.
"You're going to the ICU. The surgeon is going to install a chest tube. Shawn, you have two broken ribs, but that is the least of your concerns. The ribs punctured your lung and caused it to collapse. This is very serious", the doctor explained.
"Wow. I didn't expect that. I waited 2 days to come in. (laughing) Why ICU", I asked, wondering what installing a chest tube would entail. My imagination is vivid. It works against me at times.
"You're in critical condition. I wish you the best of luck, Shawn", he said quietly. He seemed genuine.
I was wheeled to the ICU quickly. When I'm anxious, I tend to crack inappropriate jokes. The guy pushing my gurney didn't seem amused by my quips. Perhaps they weren't clever. He had long hair too.
I took little time in the ICU for another congregation of medical professionals to begin circling. The surgeon explained the procedure he was about to perform. He looked at least 100 years old. His voice was dry and indifferent. I had hoped the chest tube statement was hyperbolic. It all felt surreal. I knew I was injured, but I wasn't prepared for such an invasive medical intervention. A tube in my lung? Holy shit!
I was given two injections of an anesthetic drug called Versed, an apparent high-potency benzodiazepine. I'm well informed about the drug class, having been prescribed clonazapam for 12 years. That acquired tolerance didn't work in my favor. Versed had no effect. None. I was wide awake and fully aware during the procedure. The old, weathered surgeon used a localized numbing agent. He then made an incision to accommodate the tube he was about to insert. I was petrified.
"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt", said the surgeon. A nurse at my bedside rubbed my hair and tried to reassure me in a low, calming voice. Doctors don't usually speak that way. When they do, they mean it.
Pop!
Puncturing a chest wall makes a noise. The pain was indescribable. I groaned loudly in agony. If you have the stomach for attempting to relate, imagine yourself being stabbed with an icepick. It pops. I guarantee it. This memory has lingered, much in the way that getting a bone marrow biopsy at 17 has.
My memories of later banter with the ancient doctor are fuzzy, at best. I was jacked up on a cocktail of sedative medications that could take down a wildebeest. My recollections are nonsensical. I vaguely recall inquiries about Tuberculosis and such. It is possible that these interactions were imagined. One conversation stands out.
"How much do you drink", he asked.
"Not a lot", I answered. That was a lie. Even in a compromised state, I tried to save face. I had been on a bender for several weeks before the incident (I think). The doctor didn't buy a word of my bullshit.
"Look, I think you're downplaying your drinking. I'm prescribing medication for alcohol detox. I'm not having you go into DTs on my watch and having a seizure. Trust me, what you just went through is nothing compared to having a ventilator installed. Is that what you want", He asked sternly. The man was an old-school fossil from a bygone era. He was blunt. I was obstinate, but capitulated with little protest.
During my stay, many staff members asked to see my legs when they entered my room. This was more curiosity than medical concern. They were a sight, more scab than skin. I was torn up.
"No", I replied. I didn't mind being on more drugs. That was my state of mind back then. I was in psychosis; iatrogenic, neuroleptic-induced psychosis, exacerbated by alcohol. Batshit. How was I holding down a full-time job? How did this go unnoticed by the people closest to me? It didn't. More than a handful of people have come forward to "Monday Morning Quarterback" my life at that time. Their hindsight is even more worthless than my own. I'll never be able to comprehend this. Once I was settled, I called my girlfriend.
I won't quote the conversation verbatim. It isn't fresh in my mind. I was heavily drugged. I can only offer a summary.
She was annoyed. Pissed off. My partner of 5 years made it clear that she did not want to visit me in the hospital. I asked for a book to read and my phone charger. I truly desired her attention. She reluctantly agreed to bring the requested items to me. Being in the ICU in critical condition was my own doing, right? Life isn't that simple. Readers can draw their own conclusions about the propriety of her responses. It isn't my call. I drank. She didn't like it. I'll drop it there.
She came to visit me that evening. She brought a book and my phone charger. In my room, there was a white dry-erase board. It listed information, such as my current nurse's first name, my assigned doctor, and my emergency contact, which was her. She read the board with a scowl.
"You should change your emergency contact to your mother", she stated coldly as she approached my bedside.
"Why", I asked. "Are we done?"
There was no definitive answer offered. She stayed with me for a few minutes. She told me she had things to do. Then she left. She didn't return again. I was in the hospital for 5 days. We had a few short phone conversations while I was admitted, but nothing memorable. She was angry. Maybe, rightfully so. I have my own opinion. I knew I was fucking up when I drank. I wasn't honest about it with her. That's the extent of the conflict. I'm done trying to understand her actions. As previously mentioned, we are no longer together. We didn't split up over this incident though.
After a couple of days in the ICU, my condition improved. The chest tube was removed after my lung was re-inflated to full capacity. I was up, walking, eating, and feeling a lot better (at least physically). The removal of the chest tube was excruciating too, although not as horrific as the insertion.
My parents and my supervisor from work came to visit me a day or two prior. The simultaneous timing of their arrivals was coincidental. My supervisor was empathetic and supportive. My parents looked sad and afraid. I don't blame them. The visitation was appreciated. I still longed for compassion and attention from my partner in vain. Despite that unfortunate reality, I defended her name to my guests when they asked about her. I was embarrassed about both of our actions.
“We can’t help you anymore. The last time was the last time”, was what my father told me as my parents exited the ICU I had stayed with them for a few months in 2017 when my second marriage imploded. I returned to the marriage briefly before finally leaving for good a few months into the reconciliation attempt.
Fair enough, I thought. Also fair: I didn’t ask to stay there, nor would I have considered asking. 49 year old men shouldn’t need parenting. I had lived a maladjusted, train wreck of a life. My parents didn’t need that drama under their roof. I didn’t want to go there either. What I truly wanted was for my relationship with my girlfriend to work. It is strange to deny help that wasn’t asked for preemptively.
The morning of my release from ICU arrived. I was still highly sedated on painkillers and that strong detox benzo. I was in no condition to be driving. With that realization in mind, I called my girlfriend again. I asked if she could come to pick me up from the hospital.
"Isn't your car there", she asked.
"Yes, but I don't think it's a good idea for me to drive. I'm pretty drugged."
"I have a busy day at work today. I don't have time for this", was the reply. Her dedication to her job could never be called into question. If she doesn't win Employee of the Month 12 times a year, it's a rigged award. I decided to drive. Why the doctor allowed me to do so will forever remain a mystery. I was honest about the effects of the drugs.
I sat in a wheelchair while I was delivered to the hospital exit. The staff member (title unknown) and I talked about music along the way. I walked to the parking garage, found my car, and drove to my pharmacy, heavily tranquilized by the drugs. Here’s the truth: I was high as fuck. I picked up my precriptions and headed back to her house.
I returned to work after a week of convalescence. My ribs ached for a month or two after the hospitalization. My job was in an office. I managed to work through it, sort of, I guess. I couldn't continue to miss work without pay. We had bills. The boat of my relationship had been rocked enough and I wasn’t the captain. My efforts focused on damage control, not healing. Perhaps the continued state of psychosis played a part in my life decisions. I know it did. Hindsight is worthless.
I want to be very clear about something. The purpose of sharing this story is not to bash my ex. Let's be honest, it isn't easy being in a relationship with a person who is struggling with addiction. I couldn't understand my own thoughts during that time period, much less read hers. While I needed someone to show up in a bigger way for me, I take responsibility for my own actions and the worry they caused others. I choose humility over judgment, always. Bashing anyone would be unfair. I’m an extremely flawed human being myself. My stories are testimonials.
I will offer this piece of advice (I never do this): If you truly love someone in the throws of active addiction, your distance might serve you well, but it will never help the struggling loved one. Drop your delusions. Tough love isn't love. A drowning person needs a hand up.
I really shouldn't be here, alive, happy, and sharing new creative content. I wish I could claim that I made major life changes after this near-death experience. It didn't happen like that though.
I left the ICU completely detoxed from alcohol. Psychosis persisted. My suffering was just beginning. I relapsed again a month later. Life got far worse for me before it improved. This isn't my happy ending. That came much later.
