Every 21 Seconds Brian D. Sweeney, Tate Publishing (page 1 of 12) Page 1 of 12

Every 21 Seconds

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Crash and Burn - November 2002

I am fairly confident when I say that anyone who began his or her day the way I began this particular November morning would find it completely strange. The sad part is, I did not find anything regarding the following events strange, not this year at least. On this particular day, I woke up around six in the morning with this bizarre collection of paragraphs running through my mind. Based on all that had been going on in my life, I felt compelled to write them down. I ran straight out to my garage, sat in my car, and began writing. As I wrote, the words paragraphs that came out were about the life that I was living coming to an end. I knew my life had become one non-stop barrage of bad events, and I was certain that I was going to figure out a way to fix it. However, this batch of paragraphs were pointing in a direction that, quite frankly, made me a bit more confused with everything that was going on. I guess my life was more than a little out of control: it was completely out of control. I just wanted to do something right. Every direction I turned, I dug myself a deeper hole. The strange situations at work had a rollover effect at home, and as home life became more stressful, I brought that stress to work. I really could not win. The poem that I wrote in my car—I guess you would call it a poem—was about watching my own funeral. I believe what I wanted was to somehow stop the pain I felt and the pain I was causing. Although my poem never indicated how I actually passed on, it gave me the opportunity to feel at ease knowing that my life could not get worse. What was odd about this poem—well, actually the whole thing was a bit odd—was that in the poem I was watching over those who came to pay their final respects to me. Of course, there is always the possibility that they were there to stick a pin in me to make sure my batteries had finally run out of energy. The year had been one long string of bad events; actually, bad would be an upgrade.

The year 2002 started with me walking out of work just eleven days into January and not returning until sometime in April. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I saw it coming. There seemed to be an arrow pointing at me, at least from one person anyway, and he coincidentally happened to be the person I reported to at my place of employment. This particular company had been my place of employment since 1986. From the first meeting I had with him, there was this strange feeling of your days are numbered, and the number is not very high. A week prior to January 11, 2002, I told my wife, Mary Beth, that the tornado was going to strike any day, and I was the trailer park sitting directly in its path of destruction.

I had been hit by a tornado, for lack of better terms, close to ten years earlier and was warned about what I could expect if I was not careful. I was told that as a result of that event, my life and my ability to deal with certain situations like the one I was about to face could be quite hazardous to my health, especially in that region located above the neck and between the ears.

For some odd reason, walking out of my place of employment felt like a complete relief. Due to what had occurred ten years earlier, I had to keep notes on what I needed to remember, as well as notes that might prove valuable in circumstances like the one I was facing at work. Anyways, I walked out, got in my car, put on a favorite CD, and drove out of the lot. I was hopeful that I would get a chance in the very near future to tell my side of the story to those who might listen; outside of that I was going to try and figure my life out during this unplanned vacation.

I’ll never know why my manager, Ron, or possibly others as well wanted me out. Was it due to the limitations I had from my brain injury? Or maybe some people just didn’t like me; I don’t know. I guess it really doesn’t matter. The following Monday I was given the opportunity to speak my peace, and I was pretty sure the perception of me this person already had formed was not pretty. This individual's title was Human Relations Manager, and his name was Ted. Ron and I would meet with Ted to review the situation. Ted was close to retirement, very close, so I wasn’t so sure this was something he wanted to deal with. During the meeting, Ron stated his reasons for his discontent with me in regards to work, and I provided the documentation I had regarding my experiences at work. My assumption was that under no circumstances would Ted take a side, but he would try to determine a solution to this issue. We both presented our version of the situation, and I left. I really had no desire to stay, and for some reason, I had no planned date for returning. My doctors had recommended that I take a “disability leave.”

During the time I was off, my primary physician suggested I talk to someone, someone who gets paid to listen and advise—someone called a psychiatrist. I am sure I met with someone like that years ago following my injury; however, I was a bit apprehensive about meeting with a shrink. Maybe I was worried I would find out I had a lot more issues than I had thought. I remember thinking that with all I had going on, this psychiatrist would need a shrink by the time my sessions were complete.

From Every 21 Seconds by Brian D. Sweeney, published by Tate Publishing & Enterprises. Copyright © 2009 Brian D. Sweeney. Reprinted with the author's permission. All rights reserved. www.tatepublishing.com.
 

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