Graduation, Hope, and Drugs

Sitting in my car before class every day, I wash down my Oxy and morphine with apple juice in the parking lot. I use this as an introductory line because it makes me seem interesting, when in reality I am just a shattered chronic pain patient who is forced to spend a lot of time thinking about drugs that paralyze my bowels and my brain. If this essay is terrible, I will probably blame it on drugs.

Instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room like a normal college student under the influence of hard substances, I sit front and center, my hand constantly raised. I use every ounce of my mental energy to force my thoughts out of my brain through my heavy tongue. It feels like riding a bike up a hill. On a windy day. With a backpack full of rocks. And two broken legs. And the bike frame is made of string cheese. But I do it, every single day, because I am afraid not to. I have lost so much of myself already.

I grip my thigh underneath the desk, my nails threatening to pierce the skin, to distract myself from the searing pain that pierces my lungs every time I take a breath. With my other hand, I take notes. I shift in my chair, hoping changing positions every minute will take some of the pressure off the parts that hurt. It’s all the parts. I’m grateful I have to wear a mask so no one can see me grimace.

I tell my doctor I would like to be euthanized and he tells me I’m not funny. He’s wrong, I am very funny, but I’m not laughing. Some days, I envy the dying. I want someone to hold my hand and tell me it’s okay to let go, that I don’t have to fight so hard anymore. I am nothing but my exhaustion and pain. All that remains is a hollowed husk, a half-abandoned shell of a person that once was, a soul devoured.

I push myself to work for a few hours because I have to, because being disabled is expensive, and collapse into a heap in the car and cry on the way home. I try not to let myself believe this will be forever. The weight of that possibility crushes me. I claw my way to the surface, feral with desperation, but I cannot escape. There is no way out; and yet, that ferocious animal instinct for survival pushes on.

Now I graduate and I fear the future. Even still, there is a small, scared piece of me buried deep inside that wants to feel hopeful. Being in school again has reminded me that despite it all, I’m still capable. I’m still smart. I’m still the same obnoxious, know-it-all, teacher’s pet that I’ve been since childhood. There is no way out, but perhaps there is a way through.

Bryanna Shaw

B.A. English, FAU Class of 2021, Summa Cum Laude