Ever since I can remember, needles have been my biggest fear. I know that many people I have talked to would agree with me when I say that it has nothing to do with the pain—it is all about the imagery (both conscious and unconscious). Due to the fact that I have built needles up—in my mind—to be some gut-wrenching evil, I cannot even describe the feeling of mental harassment I undergo when I see a needle, or even a film or television show in which needles are used.
However, I am not without my reasons. When I was younger, I had to get my blood taken, though I cannot remember exactly why. All this involved was a simple finger-prick, yet it ended in disaster because of some most-likely intoxicated nurse. When I say intoxicated, I don’t mean she was probably under the influence of drugs or alcohol on that particular day…I mean that she had probably been under the influence of both of these things for YEARS—it was most likely running through her veins. You could probably catch a second-hand trip just standing beside her. I say this, not only because of her extreme sense of sketchiness, but also because of the fact that she completely missed the top of my finger and sliced the front of it open. This particular bit of young, bloody nostalgia is always somewhat disturbing to me. How could someone literally miss the top of the finger and slice the front, which would be facing down towards the floor (since my finger would be held out in position for the prick)? Maybe something more logical happened that I can’t remember, but it’s much more interesting this way. And by interesting, I mean traumatic…so I won’t look like a complete coward. That wouldn’t make my situation any better. I’m already so pale that I have to hide from the sun. I think I’ve already stretched the coward/wimp thing out as far as I can. If I add the fear of needles, without any traumatic foundation, to that…well, I’d really feel like I was milking it for all it’s worth. The problem is that I’m not. I’d rather be hit in the head with a shovel than get a shot. I’ve never actually been hit in the head with a shovel, so I’m not sure if I’d regret that decision, but I don’t care. At least it’d be amusing—it was in Secret Window (I hope I’m not the only one that sadistically laughed at that).
While I felt the effects of this fear every time a needle, knife, or anything else punctured, ripped, or tore the skin in a movie or television show, I didn’t have to personally deal with it that often. Throughout the years following the incident, I had to get a few shots, here and there, but only occasionally and I was usually knocked out on gas because I’ve been known to get almost violent if someone comes at me with a needle. I did slice my leg completely open while carving something a while back, and had to get a shot in the emergency room. Nevertheless, I was so out of it that I don’t really remember anything. By the way, if any of you witnessed this event, and feel that you have not made fun of me enough yet...feel free to get it out now. Just remember, my scar is pretty damn manly, and easy to use as a jumping-off point for masculine stories about how I got into a knife fight in Detroit over a fake Rolex and a bag of Reese’s Pieces—but that’s another story.
Just recently—about a week or two ago—I had to have surgery on my toe, in order to remove the nerves and roots so that a the damage a traumatized toenail had caused would heal. This will prevent the toenail from ever growing back. So, now I only have nine toenails—I must apologize in advance for any not-so-nice things I might say if you step on that particular toe…don’t take it personally, it just hurts like one badmudashutyomuth. Anyway, to make a long story short, the whole deal was unexpected, as I was only going for a checkup. However, after looking at my toe, the doctor insisted I get it taken care of. Turns out they had no type of gas or anything to knock me out for surgery, due to the fact that we had to do it in the office that day instead of at the hospital. Soooo…this meant multiple needles without being knocked out to where I couldn’t see them. I was advised that if I had any music, magazines, or my phone I could get them and use them to distract me from the surgery that was unfolding in front of me. I didn’t have any magazines, so that didn’t work out. I was actually tempted to get my phone, call up someone and say: “Hey, I’m in surgery and just wanted to hear your voice one last time in case I don’t make it” (as long as I could B.S. some reason why toe surgery would be potentially fatal). However, I decided that I might be a little too out of it to make any calls. So, I went and grabbed my iPod and ear buds out of my car. I put on some Sigur Ros, laid back, stared at the ceiling, and gave them the thumbs-up. I think Sigur Ros was a good choice because everything seems so profound when their music is playing. Just pulling up to the fast-food drive though? Not if you’re listening to Sigur Ros, then you’re pulling up to contemplate a set of choices that could affect your life…FOREVER. Don don don. Well, I say this in a somewhat joking manner because I don’t believe in placing musical/recording artists up on pedestals. They are just artist like the rest of us—just like the writer, painter, filmmaker…or even the farmer, the fisherman, etc. I believe this, I guess, because I’m tired of people attempting to define what art, love, and life are, mostly based on their own personal biases. To me, these things are feelings, emotions—intangible things we want to believe we’ve defined, in order to give us some kind of false security that we’ve got it all figured out, and that there’s no need for faith (the only thing which holds this all together, and keeps us all alive).
Anyway, after putting in my ear buds and turning on my iPod, everything felt like a film—some existential dream. I think this was mostly due to the completely indescribable mindset I was in while facing my biggest fear…the music just helped me to relax. Shot one went in, and everything was ok. Shot two hit, and I twitched just a bit. I believe there were two more, which inspired slight twitches but nothing major. I heard someone say “ok, that’s over…the shots are done.” This was, most definitely, the best news I had received in quite some time. I felt like such a man, just because I went through a couple of shots—something most normal people do with ease. But, hey, lots of people have lots of irrational fears. Some people are scared of peanut butter getting stuck to their mouth, and some people are scared of commitment. I am scared of neither of these things, so I guess it works this way for most all of us.
I’ll spare you the gory details of everything that happened next. It’s funny, because what I remember most about that day is not the needles or the surgery, but what I was thinking while I was lying there. Needless to say, I had lot of things on my mind that day, though most of them had absolutely nothing to do with the surgery. However, as I lay there, I began to feel a sense of nostalgia coming over me. I remembered the initial incident, and all the times I had to get shots as a child…and how afraid I was. This led to a sort of self-analyzation of what my life was then (during my childhood), and what it is now. Where am I really? Where am I going? How far have I come since then? What’s different about me now? What have I learned from my experience throughout all these years? Needless to say, these are very difficult questions with no clear-cut answers.
In regards to the question: Where am I really?
I began to think about what my life is, and was that day at the doctor’s office. I was in heavy thought about some personal matters, and confused about what would come of things—things I believed so heavily in. I came to terms with the fact that—due to my current position in life, career, and education—many major decisions are just around the corner. I accepted the fact that many other major decisions face me in other parts of my life. Wherever I am, and wherever I was that day, I am and was there. There is a reason for this, because this is where I am/was—where I felt/feel led to be, where all my work had/has brought me. Wherever I am/was, and why I am/was there, I have/had to deal with it—no matter what anyone else has/had to say about it. (Sorry, if you substitute the /’s for “or,” it’s a bit less confusing).
In regards to the question: Where am I going?
In a way, I have already dealt with this question above. Major decisions await me in every area of my life. Stress is everywhere, and everything is stressful. I try to remember that life is stressful, and there are always major life decisions around the corner. This never changes; this is life. As I look to the future, I try to remember that I can’t know it until I get there. However, I can work hard, plan, and do my best at the delicate balancing act of life. Balancing personal, professional, etc. isn’t easy, but it’s essential. No matter how much planning I do, the future will always be ambiguous. All I can do is work hard, keep in mind on what’s really important, and always remember: Faith is all there is, faith is all there is.
In regards to the questions: How far have I come since then? What's different about me now?
All that’s happened since then is life. I’ve lived, learned, and loved. No matter how bogged-down these things got at times, that’s all that’s happened—it’s all that ever happens. I do remember the innocence I had as a child. However, I always hate referring to it in those terms. I’ve always wondered what is with this definition of “innocence.” Why do we “ruin our innocence” as we live our lives? Do we loose our innocence when we figure out what war, and senseless killing is? Is it when we loose our virginity or when we becoming adults? Is it when we move away from home and start our own life? What is this “innocence,” and when/why have we “lost” it? Most importantly: what are we all so guilty of? As this crossed my mind, I began to truly analyze what has changed in me since my childhood…since this state of “innocence.” As I said before, all that’s happened to me is living, leaning, and loving. The “delicate balancing act” I mentioned earlier applies here as well. Can all these things coexist? I think I’ve finally realized that, since then, I have learned both positively and negatively. While I have learned many important things about life, I have also learned many negative and meaningless things about how to attempt to decode its ethical, spiritual, moral, and emotional ambiguities. Maybe this is what I was “guilty of.” I have been introduced to the slippery slope of narcissism and the circular paradox of philosophy. For some time, I attempted to utilized these things in attempts to figure this crazy dream (life), but it only led back to one, profoundly important dead end: “I don’t know.” It’s not that I believe that life is not worth living because it is meaningless…it is actually quite the opposite of that. I believe that life is so meaningful, but we don’t know why. No person does. Who does? What does? That is according to your own personal beliefs. I believe that God does—whatever you refer to him as is what you have been led to believe. I am not going to use this as a persuasive piece biased towards a certain religious sect. I have quite a few friends who are atheists, and not one of them has ever said that they know the meaning of life, and have it all figured out. If an atheist, one without a belief in any “all knowing” entity, can fully admit this truth…why did it take me so long, when I do have a belief in an “all knowing” deity? Because I’ve had narcissism and overanalyzation beaten into me, and I’ve attempted to follow these as a way of life, though they are nothing but means to an end (am I being narcissist by preaching against it? Who knows—I don’t know.). And of course, the end is: “I don’t know.” So, why go on writing ideologically in a world where no ideology is right or wrong? Why do we go on living, learning, and loving in a world we’ll never know?
In regards to the question: What have I learned from my experience throughout all these years?
You don’t know.
We don’t know.
Something knows, but it’s not us.
We must come to terms with this before we ever mature.
-Elliott Sullivan III
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