Here for Now

FEBRUARy 1, 2020

I’m in a parking lot. In the dark. Crying and afraid. Though I’m not alone. I’m not outside. I’m not in danger. After a long long long day that followed an utter nightmare of a night and seemingly endless week of horrors I wish to erase from memory though cannot ignore the gravity of, which included many things I am not ready to discuss (not now, not here or anywhere, not with anyone — even the blessedly kind souls who’ve called and written and reached out, every single one appreciated beyond what words can ever encapsulate), I’ve seen and spoken with six doctors today in a serious and concerted attempt to change the perilous trajectory of my physical and mental health, emailing and scheduling appointments with many more — ranging from MDs to PhDs, psychologists to psychiatrists, osteopaths to oral surgeons, body workers to physical therapists and the list goes on, as well as starting a new and hopefully beneficial medication. We were driving home from an after hours appointment for which the medical office stayed open far into a Friday night, a session I so desperately needed — the degree to which I was not even aware until feeling the excruciating yet liberating releases of what has been devastating trauma, paralyzing tension and unbearable pain in the face, head and neck that slammed directly into asphalt and took the brunt of the force in my accident, as well as a brain, body and limbs facing serious and dangerous fallout from lasting injuries and neurological damage — when a coyote suddenly ran across the road, causing my mother to slam on her breaks. I lurched forward, I panicked, I tensed, I shook, I wept, I begged her to stop the car immediately. She did the best she could, as she always does, and is now here by my side, as she always is. My eye is spasming, nerves seizing and head throbbing anew, as I sense the terrifying depths of darkness overtake my unspeakably fragile being once more. I have that same urge to escape everything, that need to get out altogether, that compulsion to make it all stop. I can’t say I haven’t tried — and know not whether to view my battles as failures or successes, nor where I go from here or to what end. But this feeling and existence cannot go on. It cannot. I cannot.

Read more of my journey here

© 2020 Erin Schrode. About Erin. Contact.

  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • YouTube
  • Pinterest