How Broken Moments Became My Purpose

I was once told by a psychiatric nurse that I should tell my story. 

I scoffed at her, and trust me, I was very rude, but she didn’t give up on suggesting it.

At that time, though, I wasn’t in any mood to consider it or anything; I was desperately just trying to survive what my body was doing to me. This all happened while I was a voluntary patient in a psychiatric ward. 

Long story short, COVID did one hell of a number on me.

First, it went after my heart. Landed me in the hospital for that one, and a heart monitor, because my heart rate was dropping into the lower 30s/ upper 20s at times. All I could do was lie there and think and cry.

I made and sent videos to family and friends as a will for my daughter.

Then it hit my kidneys. Another hospital stay, acute Kidney Injury, they told me, I think my function dropped to 23%, or 25%, can’t remember which.

But I do remember signing that DNR.

And finally, last but not least, rounding out to full-blown destruction of my GI tract and nervous system. I admitted myself to a psychiatric ward for that body blowout and to protect myself because I knew what I wanted to do was not right.

I was hospitalized three times within four months. By the time I met this nurse, I was exhausted, burnt out, lost, and done with life.

From time to time, I had thought about telling my story, but I always thought it meant sitting down and writing a book from beginning to end. 

Just the thought of that and writing anything about my life at the moment was repulsive to me.

Turns out I was wrong, and she saw something in me that I didn’t know was there. I’ve begun to heal countless parts of my life, body, and soul that I didn’t even realize were still injured by writing.

A person’s story doesn’t need chapters or a neat beginning-to-end arc. 

My story is broken up into pieces and told out of order. 

Every day has a villain, and every day I wake up is part of my story arc.

Now, I write. 

I break my story into bits and pieces to give hope, reassurance, and encouragement that this, too, shall pass. 

I break my story into bits and pieces to give hope, reassurance, and encouragement that this, too, shall pass. You are never alone.

I survived what hands down should have been an un-survivable time in my life, and it wasn’t me who did that.

To God: Thank you for sending her to me that day. 

To the nurse I scuffed at. I’m sorry, and thank you.

© Jane Isley

(Revision) First published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself, I think.

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