On November 19, 2009, I woke up. It was about 4:45 am. I tried to move, but my face was stuck to something. As I gathered my wits I found myself face down on the icy concrete floor of my Outpost Pictures office at StudioPlex in Atlanta. Per family guidance I didn’t ride off in the Grady ambulance that arrived first. Instead I was rushed to Emory Hospital by my wife’s uncle. He rushed me off to Emory twenty minutes away.
That morning in the Emory Emergency Room was just the beginning of a series of events unfolding over the course of the week. One particular comment stood out that my mind latched onto immediately. The doctor stitching up my nose and lips said I was quite fortunate. He said that if I had fallen just a few degrees closer to dead center I would have died on impact. He then added my now missing teeth literally saved my life.
One week after getting zero sleep my mind was riding a rollercoaster of physical and spiritual delusions of grandeur. Reality was unraveling all around me. After a physical exam I was recommended to go to the closest psychiatric facility. Through hindsight I now understand that God knocked me down for good reason. I was ill equipped and spiraling rapidly. I vividly remember every moment. That’s a rare gift I have.
It’s actually a gift we all have. Raw emotions hold a history. I can go back into any point in my past and see every detail in clear view. It’s been crucial in fully understanding myself. These viewpoints are byproducts of moments tied directly to heightened emotional states. When I take myself back I can feel the pains I endured. Each time I do this I give myself additional grace for staying true even in the most trying times.
“Still alive,” muses Maximus. “The gods must have a sense of humor.” Valerius praises, “the gods musts love you.” Quintus, puzzled, remarks “Maximus the farmer. I still have difficulty imagining that.” Maximus rebuts his observation humorously, “you know, dirt cleans off a lot easier than blood, Quintus.”
If there’s a strong emotion tied to a memory I see it all. Every bruise and every scar in clear detail. By week’s end I’d be diagnosed at PACT Atlanta with bipolar disorder after a kneejerk five-second diagnosis. Keep in mind I was never asked any questions by Rasharee Praturi who christened my psychiatric profile. Just a quick glance and no intake evaluation. Just a cold, hard stare delivering the unfortunate news. I remember her gaze deeply engulfed in the prospect of adding another tick mark to their rotating roster of falsified mentally ill unfortunates.
I caught a glimpse of dollar signs that flashed in her saucer eyes. The following six months remained some of my most horrific except the time I spent over two weeks at Peachford Hospital. I not only saw through their tricks, one of their doctors picked up on my clear perceptions. One night while in the gym I was tossing around a basketball. He came up to me and observed: “David, you’re quite smart.” He understood I recognized that the staff has been playing tricks on us for their own amusement. At 2 am I was quietly moved in order to keep their trespasses a secret.