How a journaler lives life

So it turns out that Jane's death from Breaking Bad is an accurate portrayal of what death by an unconscious overdose looks like. Except with more vomit. Like, bucketfuls of more vomit. Jesse had been almost out the back door for a cigarette, but then heard me gurgling, gagging on my own vomit. He came back in and tried to turn me onto my side, but I fell off the edge of the bed, and he still had to wrestle me into a downwards position so that I didn't choke to death on my own vomit.

That's not a pretty way to go.

The memory gaps of all the 911 calls are starting to get to me. Like any of the other overdoses, I don't remember starting to throw up. I don't remember not being able to breathe. I don't remember Jesse desperately trying to turn me over, me falling to the floor, hitting my head at a sonic boom, the EMT's barreling through the front door, the IV's, the ambulance rides. I don't remember the ICU until I've been up there for hours already.

At most, I get a few minutes of remembering being on a gurney, ceiling lights flashing by in strobe. What other pieces I do remember, in tiny flashes that last less than a minute here or there, disgrace me. There are holes in my mind.

And I'm the one who put them there. It is a private shame, though I understand it to be pure biology, pure chemistry, and pure insanity.

I don't know if I'd really want to remember it all. But I do know that I do not like not remembering it all, either. For someone who puts every goddamn thing in print, not being able to remember some of the most pivotal points is beyond fucking maddening.

There is little of the last 24 years that is not recorded. For all of these months, these moments, these hours? All I have to go off is second hand tales and those never satisfy as well as knowing what happened because I was there.

Because I wasn't there. Not really. I was too busy dying.

That's not how a journaler lives life. We have to remember in order to write.

This entry was originally posted at http://quirkytizzy.dreamwidth.org/1098218.html
When there are quite many holes in your memory about that night, about such events in general, then you know how much you stood on the edge. 'Cause the brain only starts to cut off the line to the conscious memory when it's really necessary. When the things you'd see and feel would be too burdening and too terrible for you to witness.