The Journey Begins

This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com

People will say that writing can be cathartic. I’m sure this is true for some people, but, for the most part, this hasn’t been the case for me. It’s grueling sitting alone with yourself and allowing your brain to see – to really see – traumatic events unfold. Yet to evoke emotionality in the reader it is imperative that the reader can feel and see what I experienced. For this to happen, I needed to turn off all electronics (except my computer) and sit in the living room and transform it into a room with white-tiled floors, white walls, florescent lights, and an exam table. I learned that I also had to write in present tense so I felt as though what I was picturing in my mind actually was taking place in real time. I had to feel the trauma throughout my body; I had to feel it viscerally. Because of this, it wasn’t unusual for my body to become panicked. While my hands stayed dry (thank God!), the rest of my body turned into a sweaty mess, and my face flushed bright red.

So, was it cathartic to write scenes like these? Nope.

However, there were other scenes I did have fun writing – like the one below.

__________  

This passage is from the chapter, “The Journey Begins.”

I ended up becoming a commercial banker and it ended up being a good fit. I was good at math. I liked studying financial statements. I liked contracts and all of their covenants, how straightforward everything was.

I had 40-plus companies in my portfolio, and I wrote all over their balance sheets, income statements, and cash flow statements. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote – and my hands stayed dry!

It was nothing short of miraculous.

I wasn’t in a relationship, but that was okay, because I had a good job and I was independent. I didn’t need anyone else to feel content.

Sometimes other people had different ideas than I did. It turned out that Steve, who had met me at a couple of corporate events, thought that I should meet his best friend Dan. I wasn’t so certain about this prospect, but Steve was persuasive.

In May of 2001, Dan gave me a call, and, to my surprise, I ended up talking to this total stranger for an hour. Before we hung up, Dan asked me out for dinner in Uptown that Friday.

When I got home from work that Friday, I put on my favorite light-weight black dress and got in my Jeep. Because I prided myself on my independence, I said that I would meet him at his apartment and we could walk from there to the restaurant. As I drove, I tried to conjure up an image of Dan in my mind based on our conversations we had had earlier in the week. Given that Dan had played basketball, I pictured him as a tall guy. His voice was gentle though, so I didn’t picture him as the biggest guy on the court. Maybe more of a point guard. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure.

Twenty-five minutes later, I arrived at Dan’s apartment complex, a place called “The Valencia Villa.” I couldn’t help but smile at the international name. Although I was happy with where my life was at and didn’t space travel in my mind like I had in college, I still had dreams of traveling overseas.

I rang the bell and Dan buzzed me in. I wasn’t expecting him to materialize so quickly, but there he was, his shoulders practically touching the jambs on either side of the door. That’s how big he was. Definitely not a point guard was my first thought. More like a football player. It was not that I didn’t like what I saw. He was a tall, broad, handsome guy with blue eyes that crinkled at me as he smiled.

He came up to where I was standing and said, “You look nice.”

We walked along the tree-studded street in Uptown to an Italian restaurant five blocks away. We picked up where we left off our most recent phone conversation.

“I’d love to hear more about your time in Japan,” I said. I had learned that Dan had returned from Japan the previous eyar after teaching in a small town for three – three – years and that he was one of only a few foreigners who lived there during his tenure. This fascinated me. Here was someone else who was fiercely independent as well – or at least was out to discover certain truths.

“What would you like to know?” he asked.

“I’m trying to picture what it was like to be one of only a few foreigners in such a small town. I don’t think you would’ve blended in,” I added with a smile.

“Well,” he said, “you get very used to being by yourself.”  

I knew that something that made me unique was the amount of time I could spend by myself. Most people I knew would go crazy without more company. After years of having no social contacts outside of doctors and therapists, I was the only person of my friends who actively sought out hours of silence.

“Was that hard?” I asked.

“It was.” Dan nodded. “But after a while I adjusted. And I got used to being with my own thoughts.”

While Dan and I enjoyed our pasta and wine, I asked more questions. About the 30-plus countries he had visited. What his favorite places were. Why those were his favorite. And on and on.

At the end of the meal, Dan looked me directly in the eye and said, “I’ve really enjoyed our dinner.” His forwardness and sincerity made my heart skip a beat.

“I have too.” I smiled back at him.

“What about a walk around Lake Harriet?” Dan asked.

“Sounds good.” The words slipped out of my mouth. I marveled at how I was already breaking my first-date code in which I looked for my first out, not wanting to commit too much of myself too early on.  

We stood up, and Dan gestured for me to go first. Once outside, we walked side by side along the paved path that lined the lake. Although we were a couple feet apart, I could feel a closeness that bound us tighter, that made me feel more comfortable asking deeper questions.  “So what motivates you?” I asked.

“Connectedness,” he said, without missing a beat. “How ‘bout you?”

My stride faltered for a moment before I was back in sync with his steps. I couldn’t decide what I was most surprised by — by how direct Dan was, how willing he was to put himself out there, or his response. This was a man who knew what he wanted and felt no need to hide it.  

“Hey, you’re a little quiet,” he said, gently placing his hand on my back for a brief moment.

“I’m thinking,” I responded. For so long I had been focused on my career and proving myself that relationships had been secondary. Connectedness? Had the order of my priorities been wrong all along? “I like your answer,” I added.

“So, what about you?” Dan asked again.

“I–,” I stumbled. “I guess I’ve been really focused on my career.”

__________  

Prior to meeting Dan (who becomes my husband!), I felt so certain in my quest. I needed to become the Megan I would have been had I not gotten sick. Because I had been at the top academically and athletically in fifth grade, I knew that the pre-sick version of Megan would have gone on and done great things. And by great things I mean achieving success in terms of degrees, accolades, and prosperity.

When I met Dan, I started reevaluating my priorities and whether or not these resonated with the Megan I really was. It was a slow process, but, with the help of Dan, I started to acknowledge that my illness had actually made me a different person with different motives.

Have you ever had a time in your life when you’ve had to reevaluate because it dawned on you that the trajectory that you were on wasn’t really the one you wanted to keep following? I guess this could be likened to an identity crisis.

For me, I had to choose between the Megan who cut off her past and the Megan who reclaimed her past. Through a lot of hard work, I eventually chose the Megan who integrated the past with her present.