March 7 – 88 – 12 (Part 2)

Death, death, death.

Every day.

One day, I counted the sirens of over 30 ambulances, likely COVID victims on the way to Elmhurst Hospital, almost a mile down the block, and where I spent 40 days in 1992. I saw rows upon rows of pine boxes in a ditch on Hart Island. Hart Island is an Island in the East River, where for many generations, the penniless have been buried. For COVID, it was being used for when the City’s other cemeteries were full.

Again wondering, in my 3 ½ room apartment, whether that would be me, talking to no-one except virtually or on the phone, maybe occasionally hearing the sound of my own voice.

The routine: wake up at 5:30am, read for awhile, sometimes take a shower (I couldn’t find a lot of toiletries online), zap some sausages in the microwave, maybe cook some eggs. Then maybe Italian sausages for lunch, again, zapped. The last really good meal I made for myself was chicken makhani. Really good.

But I had gotten too too regimented, afraid to go out because I was in the epicenter, and the local supermarket was too crowded. I ran out of toilet paper and toothpaste, but I was able to find a source of toilet paper.

Again, a huge mistake trying to ride it out myself.

It did not help that we have a society where people’s lives, when it gets down to it, are not valued in the least. Trump ordering meatpackers to report for work despite high COVID risk. Arbitraging PPE so Jared could make money.

The last, most egregious: the murder of George Floyd. Almost 10 minutes. Mama, mama. Evil incarnated in a uniform. Not just the knee, but the Asian-American officer shooing people away. Too much to bear. Civil unrest over the murder; all of it justified.

I despaired.

And broke down.

Realizing, thinking more about Death and possible meaningless, nothingness, though I do in fact believe in Consolation after this life. It is hard to divide by 0, though.

I have probably had five or six Breakdowns in my life; the worst was 1992. Every single one has been about Death Anxiety and Purpose Anxiety. The shortest (about three weeks) was in 2018. This one feels a lot like 1992, but I am still working…

I truly realized I cannot live alone.

I called Francine; JJH was going to drive me to her house.

Between the initial arrangement and the day I arrived in NJ, four days elapsed.

The following paragraphs have some graphic content, but since you are my Brothers, I do not feel uncomfortable sharing.

After making arrangements to go to NJ, I still had to wait four days, both for the ride and my new meds to be delivered (Ativan being most important). Those days were Hell.

I felt like jumping out of my skin. Though I never had active suicidal ideations, I didn’t trust myself in the state I was in. The state I was in: one morning, I saw that I had drank some soda during the night. I did not remember doing so. Did I sleepwalk and drink it? Consequently, and I do no think so dramatically, I hid every single sharp item in the apartment, just in case I woke up half awake in the middle of the night and did something stupid.

Tuesday came, the day of Freedom. Perhaps the roughest day. I hadn’t gotten my tranquilizer yet, so I still felt like jumping out of my skin. Just to stay in place, I said the full Rosary, out loud, all the Decades, all the Mysteries. I felt like a different person, or, more exactly, two different people arguing with each other. Without getting into it too too much, my Theology has definitely changed. My Uncle kept me grounded by reading most of the Psalms to me.

The medicine arrived. So did JJH.