Dream or Reality?

I recently stumbled upon digital medical files from the ICU hospitalization that this entry refers to, and as I read through them, I was struck by how much of that time still eludes me—fragmented and disorienting. The files offer a window into a deeply complex period of emotional trauma, one that I’ve only been able to piece together in bits and pieces, scattered through a haze of broken memories and confusion. At first, I was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the rawness of what I was reading, unsure of how to process the details that were once just echoes in my mind. I haven’t yet had the courage to fully revisit them, but for now, this journal entry serves as a reflection of how memories can flutter in and out of our consciousness—like fleeting moments that feel both distant and immediate. Nine years. A stretch of time that should feel concrete, but instead, it haunts me in a way that feels like a dream—a dream that suddenly comes rushing back, leaving me breathless, as if I’ve never truly left it behind.

Nine years. A stretch of time that feels more like a fleeting dream than a tangible reality. It lingers at the edges of my memory, faint and incomplete, like smoke drifting from a fire that has long since burned out. At times, it feels as though it was never real, as if it belonged to someone else, not me. Yet, in the stillness, it comes rushing back—vivid and raw—leaving me breathless. It’s the kind of memory that doesn’t simply resurface; it strikes with the force of something you thought you had left behind.

I can recall the moment I returned to consciousness, reluctant and disoriented. My eyelids were heavy, sealed shut by the darkness, yet they opened. And there, those eyes—wide and filled with a mixture of awe and terror—mirrored the abyss I had been emerging from. Then came the voice, ringing out with disbelief, “Oh my God! You woke up! We thought we were going to lose you.” That voice, like a lifeline, pulled me back, though I was adrift, suspended in a body that felt foreign, unrecognizable.

Words were beyond me. My mouth was dry, my lungs filled with sand. I was suffocating beneath a maze of wires and tubes, tethered to the machines that hummed and beeped, dictating my breath, my pulse, my existence. I was no longer just flesh and bone; I was a mixture of metal and code—alive, yet not truly living.

The world around me splintered. White coats, green scrubs—blurred human figures moved frantically in a blur. Their voices crashed against the sterile walls, their hands and needles working in haste, too fast for me to understand. Their language was foreign, a jumble of sounds, but the urgency was unmistakable. Their eyes flickered between monitors, charts, IV lines. A needle sank into my skin, sharp as a snakebite, followed by a searing pain—quick and merciless.

And just like that, everything shattered. The voices faded, the lights dimmed, and fear dissolved into nothingness. It all disappeared, swallowed by the void, leaving only an overwhelming silence that felt almost like peace.

But I remember.