Honeymoon, Part Five: Sans Corpus

Ryan Heller
The seconds before I overdosed will forever be burned in my memory. I was eighteen, maybe nineteen by then, a freshman at Florida State. Scott and I were alone in my apartment; my three roommates, friends from high school, were still back home for the holiday.

I was enamored with Scott, in love with the idea that he was the missing puzzle piece. My missing twin. We spoke all day, cuddled at night, but he would never open himself to me. During brief moments of clarity, whenever my mind sobered, I realized I was something he used when needed. When the wind so moved him. I was someone he slept with, but we spoke nothing of it in the morning. Not to each other, not to our friends. We were just something that happened behind closed doors, in a silent haze I’m so sorry, I kept thinking. I’m so sorry for doing this. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.
But there was no mercy.
Another cold rush and the ripping of my insides. My mouth opens as a vacant tunnel; thick, purple liquid ooze out onto the stark white floor. I notice the unchanged cat litter box tucked next to the toilet near my head. The sudden smell causes another gut convulsion. I am sweating. Tears of fear, of pain, dance from my eyes like sadistic ballerinas.
Another release of purple.
It must have been wine-stained bodily fluids.
You may have wondered what will be the very last thing your eyes see before death.
Mine were fixed on a line of caulk where the bathtub met the vinyl floor. Three shades of white coming together. That was it. My exit frame.
And then the thoughts.
Those last thoughts while blackness filled my eyes are clear as the moment they were born. As the dark fogged my vision, body lightened, my thoughts were of my parents. My mother and father who would receive a call the next morning that their son was dead.
That I was dead.
As I surrendered, I felt so sorry, so genuinely sorry, for what I had done. And the lasting pain I would cause. I wished for them to not see me like this; locked in a bathroom, surrounded by a minimalist canvas of purple and limb.
Those last thoughts were of sorrow. Were of the two people who loved me the most. Who raised me to be someone I had let slip from my fingertips. A person I had lost somewhere along the way. My last thoughts were not of myself, but of the two people I loved more than I knew before that moment.
I realized I didn’t want to die.
Everything went black.

 

This memory surfaces as I sit on a plane with Chris, heading back from our honeymoon. He is wrapped in a red fleece blanket, head cocked to the side, sleeping. Other passengers surround us, aisles of people, each with their own story.
I sneak the rest of Chris’ uneaten tiramisu, then put the empty dish back on his tray.
Had that night been my last, this plane ride would not exist. The flight attendant would not be passing out drinks. Chris’ life would be in a very different place. He would not know there was someone named Ryan Heller ever alive. Because I wouldn’t be. But maybe he wouldn’t be either. Does anything exist if we are unable to witness it? Or does the world simply stop until we are reborn with fresh eyes and ears to create again?
A few things I know for certain.
I know I eventually got off that vinyl bathroom floor. I know the litter box was changed. I know the purple was wiped up. I know I continued to do drugs and eventually left Florida State two years later because I was a mess. I know I was arrested shortly after. I know there were days when everything seemed to be OK, and days when I felt like I was on the floor again. I know I went back to college and eventually graduated several years later. I know my family continued to stand by me and later became proud of me. I know I went to rehab, got sober and continue to work on me daily. I know Chris and I have had very rough times, but he has my back every single day. I know he loves me even when words are unspoken. I know I married my best friend just weeks ago and we traveled the Mediterranean together. I know we are headed home right now. I know I have seen more happy days than I ever thought possible, just by beginning to feel alright with myself.
I know I feel good about writing these things down, because it helps me to understand them.
I know I struggle talking about happy times, because it seems corny and like a pile of rose-colored mush.
But I also know that I’m learning life can’t only be filled with the darkness. No matter how beautiful it can seem, no matter how comfortable and compelling it can be, the light always finds a way to seep in and shine where shadow found home. It’s just the way things go. The cosmic balance.
So maybe I am finding a new comfort in this chapter.
Out from my head and into my heart.
Out from shag carpet and dismembered Barbie doll heads. Out from the past, from the closet I hid within.
Out.
From the blue.

 

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