I stared at the parking meter, drunk. My fists were broken and I wavered slightly before punching it again. And again. And again. The bones in my hands splintered as I hit the parking meter. The tiny needle flickered slightly each time I struck it as my friends watched on, not sure what to do.
I woke up the next day stuck to my bedsheets with blood. A foot-long gash crossed my back. I still don’t know how I got that. The wound sealed overnight, enveloping the sheets with it.
That morning, my best friend had a black eye and a giant, blood-wet scar that covered the left side of his face.
I had attacked him. He was one of my best friends and tried to get me to stop pounding back the shots on my 24th birthday. They counted 42 that night, but the alcohol wasn’t what made me angry.
***
I had no purpose after St. Thomas University kicked me out for the second time for my dismal grades; no direction and no real need to get out of bed other than to work a job. I bartended to pay the bills. Rinse and repeat for years.
I was left fearless, godless and indestructible, so I didn’t care about anything but the weekends. And my body paid the price.
I’ve crawled from four different motorcycle accidents, gotten my face stomped into a sidewalk by Caterpillar work boots, and maimed my body on ski hills. In other words, I’ve tested my limits.
If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve broken 30 bones. But I really have no idea. Fingers, thumbs, wrists, nose, arms, knees, ribs, tailbone and my femur have all been broken at least once. None of it killed me. (I’ll probably die from cancer from all the X-rays I’ve had.)
And it was only after my 24th birthday that I realized what I had become: a monster.
For the first time in years, I was scared; scared of myself and for myself at the same time. But it turns out fear can scare the hell out of you – and life right back into you.
Fear has become my biggest motivator of all; more powerful than greed, money, success, desire or love.
I eventually quit the bartending and black-out partying scene, worked a terrible job to save some cash, rediscovered faith, and somehow convinced STU to let me back in for a third time.
What started as a desire to just finish a degree has turned into a complete lifestyle change. Sneaking in extra courses, working on a second degree at the University of New Brunswick and once again convincing STU to do things they shouldn’t (taking third and fourth year at the same time), has allowed me to fit four years of university into two.
For the past month, I’ve been checking the mailbox daily to hear back from the University of British Colombia, the graduate school I applied to. Two years ago I didn’t even know what graduate school was.
While I work my ass off to keep up with my eight classes this semester, I’ve come to realize that my self-destructive qualities haven’t changed at all – they just better suit the environment I’m in.
I’m not sure how healthy that is, but it’s better than just surviving.
