The Art of Disappearing

As the needle went into my arm, I attempted to relax, knowing the ketamine would be uncomfortable as it entered my body. I groaned, the thick substance pushing into my muscle on an exhale. The nurse left the room, leaving me with my therapist as I sank into a recliner that reminded me of my dad. My therapist encouraged me to get comfortable as she played gentle music and started her guided meditation.

Then I closed my eyes, and the ketamine kicked in.

Hand in hand, I walked with my childhood self toward a tree. She was seven-year-old Jourden, the me from a photo my parents still have in their bedroom: It was snowing that day, an infrequent sight in my Texas-born and -raised life, and I was bundled up in a hand-me-down coat next to a snowman. She smiled up at me as we approached the tree.

At the bottom of the tree's branches, I saw my teachers and mentors: a tennis coach from high school, my first editor, my writing professor from grad school, and older, wiser influences through life. Above them, I saw my friends: sapphic friends who made me feel seen in my queerness, dancers who created whimsical performances with me, friends I lost but still missed, and old friends who never left. Then, at the top, the people who were most important: the family who loved me, my best friends, my soul dog, and new love.

The faces of everyone I loved throughout my life smiled down at me and seven-year-old Jourden. Their love was tender, understanding, as if they knew about my pain, about my sadness. Seven-year-old Jourden squeezed my hand and then let go. She knew I was struggling, but she said she was still proud of me. She was still happy with who we became and where we were in life.

In the last year, but especially in the last six months, I found myself with a debilitating and nasty storm of ailments in chronic pain, chronic illness, and depression. I was in pain nearly constantly and suffering from fatigue and a severe resistance--a resistance to life, to responding to messages, to finding work and paying my bills. I suddenly cared very little about basic responsibilities of life and struggled to do the most necessary of tasks.

And the more those close to me pushed me, the more I shut down.

I developed a severe anxiety and repulsion to texting, messaging, and communication. The idea of running out of money and not being able to pay rent no longer scared me. I just didn't care anymore--about nearly anything. I grew apathetic and starting seeing my misfortune as comical; I grew numb and started feeling my heart grow vacant. I was no longer overwhelming sad all the time. I simply stopped feeling.

Out in the world, people saw me smile and laugh. At home, I felt lost, frozen as to how my life would move forward when I could barely move at all. So for the first time in my life, I released the pressure: I stopped replying to messages, and I stopped going to social events. I retreated to a den of peaceful solitude and surrendered to my fatigue, to my lack of motivation, to my depression. And it felt good.

It felt good to disappear.

I spent my days doing whatever I pleased: a glass of Maker's Mark on the rocks at 2pm on a Tuesday; a day spent in bed with a cat and reruns of America's Next Top Model; endless sex, masterbation, erotica, and dopamine; and avoidance of anything or anyone who attempted to make me stop.

The guilt I felt over avoiding people's messages only grew worse every day I ignored them. By February, I knew there were dozens of people I hadn't responded to since November. The more guilt I felt, the more I avoided invitations and communication. The more I avoided communication, the more I isolated myself.

I want to be underwater.

My ears hearing the quiet depths of an ocean I've never seen before. I want to float at the surface, my eyes seeing nothing but sky, my ears hearing nothing but waves, my skin feeling nothing but sun and saltwater. I want to sink, to rest, to feel the pleasure of feeling nothing.

But I can feel myself rising. I can feel the weight pulling me down lighten and the muscles pulling me up strengthen. As I swim toward the sun, questions float around me: Will my friends forgive me for ignoring them? For not showing up as a friend? For completely disappearing? Will producers still want to book me for shows even though I've been performing less? Will opportunities I've ignored still be there?

It's been nice being underwater. But maybe I don't want to be underwater anymore. Maybe I don't want to be isolated anymore. Maybe I want to start swimming.

Maybe I want to emerge.