I Have Died Many Deaths

Every story is supposed to be a coming of age. The boy becomes a man, and the rest is supposedly stagnant. It's the classic example of a bildungsroman that fits neatly in the pressed pages of a duty-free paperback.

The reality, at least for me, is a little bit different. I have died many deaths, and I want to tell you about a few.

As someone who struggles with mental illness, I've been in a fair amount of bland offices. When the doctor starts running through the standard questionnaire, there's always a few common questions.

"Do you ever have thoughts of hurting yourself or someone else?" "How are you sleeping?" "If you were to rate your childhood from 1-10, with one being the worst and 10 being the absolute best, which number best corresponds with your assessment of it?"

It's incredibly difficult to rate a part of your life that was so long ago on a 1-10 scale. Especially when the person who experienced that life was someone with whom you are no longer familiar. Everyone's young life has some difficulty, some hardship at some point. That difficulty is relative to the person answering the questions, how much they remember, what they were exposed to, and how much they decided to — consciously or subconsciously — forget.

I typically answer that question as a solid seven. I grew up for most of my young life with two loving parents. I think of my Dad reading my sister and I the newest Harry Potter book whenever it was released; I think of dancing with my Mom in the living room to Elvis; I think of birthday cakes and renaissance fairs.

I guess that was all before.

I'd like to think of the friends I had when I was very young. The truth is, I didn't have any — I attribute this to my being very annoying from when I was old enough to talk until I was maybe 12 years old.

In all honesty, I didn't start building lasting relationships until I started high school. I don't know why it just kind of happened.

As I looked around and realized some people actually seemed to enjoy my company, what I had to say and what I thought — even though a ton of it was incredibly stupid — I felt pretty good about life.

I thought, maybe, this was the after I'd read so much about.

A lot of people define life with a before and an after. This moment changed everything for them. Whether it was a divorce, a marriage, a death or a new life being made, they say they encountered a turning point. In truth, I have too many befores to count, and I don't think all of them led to afters.

After high school I decided, on a lark, to join the Air Force. I went off to basic training starry-eyed imagining the future so many had told me was just waiting for me over the horizon.

I made it through to a new after. I had a new first name, "Airman." The last name didn't change.

I spent a couple of years going through the motions of life until I realized in late December of 2016 I had shifted once again from after to before. I don't remember too much specifically from that time besides being "out with friends" a lot, usually at the bar. I remember ignoring a lot of calls. I remember avoiding a lot of voicemails. I remember listening to them a whole lot in the after.

Losing my mom was the first significant after I had experienced. Everything before that felt very muddled. The lines weren't quite as sharp as I could hope, like looking through a frosted glass window.

I know I can't change the amount of time I had in the before, but I sure as hell wish I would have spent it a little bit differently. Then again, I think everyone who isn't a protagonist in a pulp fiction paperback thinks the same.

I learned much later, in what I would say is my current after, that part of the reason I was having so much trouble moving forward was that I kept trying to force my way back to the page that had already been turned. I was trying to live in the before. I wanted it back. I was an idiot.

A year or so later, I would find myself on my way out of the Air Force. My psychiatrist tells me that I'm still carrying the weight of trying to live in the before of that chapter, and that's what's making my heart so heavy. He said I'm grieving for the life I wanted to have, but don't get to anymore. He said a lot of things that make sense. I think I'll keep seeing him.

I've lived my life up to this point trying to define it by before and after.

What I want today is a happily ever now.