When Whitney Went Away

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