When Whitney Went Away
I remember clearly when
Whitney went away, because believe it or not, I was jealous. It was
February 2012 when Whitney Houston died and I wanted to die too. In
fact, I had thought about dying for many months beforehand, so when
she made it through the veil, leaving God's green earth and passing
into God's great Heaven, I mourned my own tragedy more than I mourned
hers, yet I couldn't help my exaggerated emotions of envy.
Why? Yes, you must be
asking, why?
As I slammed a
racquetball against a racquetball wall at the gym, I asked that same
question day after day. Why? Why did I want to die? And why did
Whitney's sad departure accentuate that want and affect me so?
Every thought lead to
that poor ball being beaten harder. How could she leave and leave me
here? Why did I care so much, and why at that particular point did
the anger, anguish, and stress peak into pathetic pity?
Less than a year after
a fateful fall, which left me limping and in constant pain,
everything had fallen apart for me. Before my unfortunate accident, I
was an ice skater. Before the fall, I had a happy-go-lucky life,
doing what I wanted to do, traveling all the time, laughter came
easily (in fact, I had just finished performing stand-up comedy at a
favorite club), I liked my freedom, and I had no debt. None.
Before that
change-of-life incident, I felt in charge. I had a wide circle of
friends from all over the world; there were to-do lists easily
conquered; trips to a beachfront condo; dreams and plans for future
fortunes.
In a split second, as
with all accidents, every second thereafter altered irrevocably. Most
important of all, I lost control. Completely. Game over. I lose.
And I continued to lose
starting that day and every day afterward. Privacy, vanity, sanity,
and yes … money. Friends, privilege, driving, freedom. All gone.
All important things ceased to be so. Jail without bars. Death row.
Stripped of my
independence, being utterly dependent on the kindness of others and
strangers, brings an awareness of one's humility in a torpedo-like
strike. It's not as if I got an opportunity to get used to
disability. It's not as if I had a husband or anyone else at home to
hold my hand and tell me it would all work out and that I would be
okay. I was not okay. And I would not be okay for a very long time.
In fact, I may still not be okay. It may never be okay, at least in
the same way, for me again.
As the long road to
recovery began, after a week in the hospital and emergency surgery,
depression paid me an unannounced visit, but refused to leave –
even when asked. Imagine your worst nightmare never going away.
That's what it was like.
Good friends turned out
to be not so good. Food was scarce for me and hard to get. (Except
for pizza and Chinese take-out, which got boring after many days and
the Chinese delivery guy grew afraid of me, because I insisted he
help me by bringing in the food.) Going anywhere meant a
taxi, which cost a lot of money. (Yes, my right leg --- lucky me ---
no driving.)
And so on....
Then, physical therapy
threw me over the edge. Too intense; both the therapy and the
therapist.
It's not like I was
sitting securely on the ledge of life at that point anyway, but
falling again, especially into the mental meltdown miasma, meant an
overload of critical components required to survive, failed.
So what's so special
about survival? I mused. Certainly not amused by any of the
sequential events that stole my existence from me, it occurred to me
that maybe my life wasn't worth fighting for. Maybe I'd had a good
run and this was it. The more I thought about that, the more it took
hold and wouldn't let go.
Oh, and did I forget to
mention the pain? The endless, excruciating pain that denied me
sleep, kept me crying, and sometimes denied me my own breath? The
pain. Intolerable.
Which brings me back to
Whitney.
She was in pain. I
don't know what kind of pain. None of us know why anyone else hurts.
But here was a worldwide celebrity with the voice of an angel, rich
beyond comprehension in funds and friends, gorgeous, with gargantuan
talents, and she's in pain. She may not have meant to take her own
life, but on the other hand, maybe she did. Maybe she just wanted the
pain to stop. That's why most people kill themselves. Not to die, but
to stop the hurt of living.
I thought about my pain
a lot. Because if I didn't, it intensified to make sure I wasn't
forgetting it was the new boss of me. For the first time, I
understood why people want, no, need, to escape that type of pain.
Incessant, unrelenting, pounding, pain. If prayer to end pain goes
unanswered, then prayer ponders punishment of another sort. Prayers
eventually become pointless, especially in the same vein as such
pain.
Since suicide became an
predominant idea, I slipped over that edge of sanity and visited the
realm of ruin. I didn't have much strength to tour the vast expanse
of nothingness, and maybe that's what, in the end, saved me. My
complete lack of strength.
Some say it takes
courage to kill oneself. It takes conviction and it takes a strength
of will so strong, that it can conquer the indomitable will to live,
which is incredibly stronger.
I made it out of the
pit of pathetic. I don't know how, but God's Will is the strongest of
all Wills, and I will be forever grateful that whatever I had to go
through to find the forever of me lead me to a whole new life and a
whole new view.
I wish Whitney had
waited. I wish she had found her way out too. I wish I hadn't been
angry and jealous and wanted to go with her to wherever she escaped
to.
When the radio plays
her songs, when I hear I Will Always Love You, when I think of
those sad, bad days, I weep for Whitney and I weep for me.
Some memories are
simply to painful to remember, and I remember when Whitney went away.
Just Another Lori Story
