1,970 Miles SW, 730 Days Ago

So I don’t know how I’m going to write this. It’s probably going to be a complete wreck, the tone and style will not be consistent just because I can’t bear to write this all in a single day. I also haven’t done any personal writing in at least a year, and it doesn’t help that this is probably my most personal story either. I know most people reading this have probably heard me mention New Orleans and about how it was a truly traumatizing trip, but outside of very shallow and vague explanations, I’ve never really told the story of what happened or what the true effects of it are. I’ve been on a slow journey of self-repair and reconstruction of my person in the last few months and while I know writing this won’t be the silver bullet to the metaphorical vampire, I do think it’s a necessary step in the process. Openly admitting how you almost killed yourself to friends you’ve known since elementary school has to be one of the toughest things a person can do, but in my eyes I think it’s crucial. I can’t continue to bury this memory and experience, it’s a part of me that I have to not only accept but embrace in order to find that feeling of fullness I’ve been missing for several years now. So let’s talk about New Orleans and what happened after it.

730 Days ago it was March 5th, 2020. The United States wasn’t in lockdown, there were no masks, and there wasn’t an insurrection at the nation’s capital. I was coming hot off of what I thought was the single most emotionally wrecking month I had ever experienced. It felt like every other day there would be a time where I was blinded by tears from another emotional breakdown, from my bedroom to lunch to SSH to even in the middle of jazz band where I had to excuse myself to the bathroom to cry on the floor AFTER I had already done so in zero period the same morning. Come March and now I’m on a trip 1,970 miles away to The Big Easy with the school jazz bands for a 5 days. I was hoping for this trip to be some sort of escape from all of this. A couple days in a new place with my favorite people at the time, far from the lunch tables where I had broken down and feigned it as sleeping. That first night I felt my first major case of culture shock, NOLA is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced and I’m entirely convinced that there’s no place anywhere like it and as a result I wouldn’t get that Oasis I was vying for. Ok, sure, I’ll make the most out of this, I guess. It was the 4th that night.

I was wearing a yellow Avon Walk t-shirt that I got for volunteering, a pair of jeans, white socks, the same model Skechers I wear today, and a royal blue Couchmen jacket my closest friends at the time gifted me for my birthday. First day goes off relatively alright for my state at the time. I explored Jackson Square and the nearby Mississippi, spectated bands outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and mostly followed a group of friends wherever they went. While nothing happened to cause it, that feeling of being weighed down and hopelessness still hung in the air like the smoke from the cigarettes in Bourbon Street. That night we were scheduled to watch a concert at the Loyola campus in NOLA, we took the trolley there. At this point I was feeling very low, I wasn’t really talking to anyone and I was standing kinda separately from the rest of the attendees. The doors open to the campus and even though I’m walking with some friends, I’m not really present, I’m silent while my mind berates me for being silent and sullen. I don’t recall seeing much color either. We get into the theater and I sit a little ways off from everyone, some friends noticed and invited me to sit with them which I accepted, though just because I wanted to keep this loose-fitting guise that everything was fine. I remember crying throughout the entire concert, silent tears were deafening against the irregular rhythms of a professional trombonist. My head was screaming at me, slamming me for barely knowing how to play the trombone, for failing to receive a contract to Pacific Crest, for being someone undeserving of all my friends and loved ones. I felt ashamed to be alive, to be breathing. Then the concert ended and with it any sounds in my head. It was silent. I remember walking out of the concert hall and overhearing a conversation about Buddhism, I had thought about joining in the conversation but opted to walk ahead of them, eyes glued to the floor and legs moving without purpose. We get to the station and realize we have to wait a while for the next trolley, so that’s what we do. It was cold, but not so cold that I was shivering. There was a light breeze. There were absolutely no thoughts going through my head, a suffocating quieter than silent silence. Everyone else was in their respective group circles, the parents milling about making sure no one did anything stupid. I stood alone with my non-thoughts to accompany me. I remember feeling nothing. No sadness or hopelessness, but also no joy that the pain was gone. I looked out at the Loyola courtyard and at the rails where the next trolley would come from. There was a rumbling and a bright light down the tracks. I didn’t even think but I started leaning forward, a chaperone told everyone to get into their groups in line and I had to relocate. At that point my mind was set. I knew what I was going to do. I didn’t know when the thoughts would come back or where I would have my next breakdown, my mental was beyond decimated to the point where basic emotions weren’t coming through. I was going to commit suicide. The trolley passes for some reason I don’t remember, but I wasn’t in a position to get hit anyhow. By the time the second one was turning the bend I was in front of the tracks, a spot where I could ensure I wouldn’t have to pretend like I was fine for the rest of my life. The trolley neared and I readied to jump. The breeze quickened, the world was grey, there were no sounds and no thoughts, I was ready. I made my goodbyes to everyone, from my childhood elementary school friends that I wished I spent more time with, to old hockey coaches and Boy Scout Scoutmasters, to my family. The trolley was in distance and…I didn’t. I had leaned so far forward subconsciously I remember someone to my side commenting to me as a joke “woah stand back, you wanna get hit?”

I don’t know why I stopped. I don’t know why I immediately spammed my friends’ messages apologizing. I don’t know why I didn’t cry. When the trolley halted to a stop I remember feeling again, suddenly. I was cold, there was color everywhere. I needed to text someone something, because something terrible almost happened. That trolley ride back to the hotel was probably the most uncomfortable ride I’ve ever been in, I was trying desperately not to let the unfortunate person sitting next to me see how broken and fragile I was at that point. I should’ve maybe been sleeping on the way back, but instead I was shaking, staring at my messages not knowing how to process everything that had happened. I don’t remember anything else from the rest of that night that I can properly describe outside of leaving the trolley and feeling like I was going to collapse. The next morning I did a full listen-through of Kerosene by Red Vox, but that’s my last explicit memory from those events. For the rest of the trip I felt hollow is the best way I could describe it. A porcelain vase that could shatter at the slightest breeze. It began to feel like a sick episode of Gilligan’s Island where I kept seeing the same people over and over again, unable to escape from the visions of them in their groups from the night prior. If February was a flash flood, these few days were a complete tsunami. Every single day there would be several instances where I would break down in tears, being unable to understand what happened to me and being in a completely new world but being unable to escape the people I didn’t want to see me in that current state. I was running on the spine of Ouroboros, the members of the jazz bands always staring into me as I attempted to put on a lead role Broadway performance but gave a high school extra one instead. My closest friend at the time had to meet with me privately because apparently people were asking if I was alright, they noticed I wasn’t the same. At this point in the trip (3 days in) only 2 people people knew. The trip continued on and my state continued to worsen. I had a one-on-one with someone that I’ve known pretty much my whole life, and even though they’re really kind and understanding, I still felt bad about breaking in front of them.

The last night and day of the trip had to be the worst of the immediate aftermath while still in NOLA. That night I was so exhausted from everything I tried to sleep early, however not only were people prank-calling the room, the nightmares were very potent that night. While myself and a couple of friends were walking down Canal Street looking for something to eat I called a family member and broke down in the middle of the sidewalk. It was the culmination of all the emotions I had during the trip and I couldn’t hold back, sometimes when I close my eyes I relive the scene. There were no dry eyes for the rest of the night, for reasons not limited to my mental problems. On the plane ride home while attempting to read 1984 I had 2 more breakdowns, and I vaguely remember someone on the flight asking “is he crying?”

I have no idea what life would’ve been had COVID not struck. Would my condition have worsened? Would everyone start to notice the damage? Who’s to say, but regardless the majority of the long-term aftermath was spent in isolation thanks to the global pandemic. I went to therapy for a few weeks before deciding online sessions weren’t doing enough to justify the cost. I can say I spent a lot of the time coping and trying to improve myself but that would be a lie, in reality what I did was try to cover-up what I was feeling and bury those memories in the deepest dungeons, never to be touched again. As a byproduct I became incredibly antisocial and isolated for a period of time, I didn’t submit a photo for the 2021 yearbook because I didn’t want any trace of myself in there. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I think I truly started to make meaningful strides towards self-improvement and recovery. Nothing truly stays buried, at least not in the form it was buried in. I couldn’t and still can’t pretend this didn’t happen, that it affected me more than I’d like to admit a year later. With this mindset I’ve been laying down new bricks every day, slowly but surely remaking myself by accepting my whole self. Yes I’m capable of being at the lowest a human can be at, but that’s simply a part of me, not the whole thing. This, as previously stated, will not be the Snake Oil remedy that’ll cure me instantly, in fact I think I’ll probably have to travel back to the station at some point, but that won’t be for a while. Nowadays on the other hand I’m in a much better state than I’ve been in a long time. I’ve grown immensely from the whole experience, besides allowing more parts of my personality to shine, I’ve gained a new outlook on life as well. I see life as a constant act of balance, for every peak a valley and every valley a peak. Equal parts dark and light, working symbiotically to produce a better future than either one could provide on their own. I know it’s very cheesy and very overdone, but it’s honestly how I view things now and it brings me a lot of peace when something unexpected happens.

I’ll keep this conclusion short. There’s a lot here but believe me there’s other details that probably should be in here but I physically couldn’t type it out. This was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, so if you read through the whole thing, thank you, sincerely. I hope this sheds light on why I don’t like jokes pertaining to suicide among other things. One last thing, if you decide to send a message after please understand it may take me a while to respond. Thank you.