Memento Vitae or: "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Not Being DEAD."

So here’s a question: do you believe in “miracles”? 

It’s a bit of a loaded question, I know, the real question is: “What qualifies as a ‘miracle’?”. 

Welp... I’m no Jonathan Frakes, but those of you who have seen Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction will know exactly what I mean when I say that this next story may have a touch of... Christmas spirit [smug smile].  

The year was 2010 and the great recession had taken its toll. I was borderline homeless and had been living with a so-called “friend” for three long and—to put it lightly—stressful years. Being stuck in a small town and having no license or car only compounded my situation, and I was unemployed for two whole years before I was finally able to land a job... as a dishwasher in the next town over. I had no means to get to work, other than relying on others for transportation. I was hanging by a thread, not knowing a damn thing about life or its various pitfalls; I was 23. 

Something you should always know is just exactly who is in your corner. It’s a lesson that is best learned early in life, preferably before anything kinda’ serious happens… like being abandoned and left to freeze to de- well… more on that in a bit...

The so-called “friend” I speak of had also been unemployed from the start of our living together, eventually finding a job at the local Walmart which would—ironically—prove to be significant latter on. I’ve a history of choosing my company poorly, but that really isn’t surprising to me, considering what I discovered about myself three years later. I won’t be getting into that−it’s something for another memoir−but let’s just say that nowadays, I identify more with Red Foreman than I do with Quasimodo… 

I’ll not use true names—in respect to privacy—so we’ll just call him “Jerk”. 

Jerk was, well... a jerk. Being an only child, he was a certified narcissist who felt it necessary to mock me at every turn, hiding his contempt behind a masque of jest.  

To make a long story short, this masquerade had hit a crescendo, with the subsequent events that followed being unexplainable to this very day...

Who doesn’t love Christmastime? The lights, the tinsel, the extreme cold. Hell, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was truly a “winter wonderland”... 

if Jack Frost were a deranged axe-murderer. 

That “axe-murderer” had found his next potential victim—me—sitting outside in a Walmart parking lot at 1:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve, making peace with the creator.

Jerk—being my only ride—was only willing to offer me a ride so long as I remained in his good graces, and, at his convenience. This would be understandable, given my living arrangements, if he wasn’t so petty and predisposed to spite… kinda' like a child. As I left the restaurant for the night, the temperature was low and steadily dropping like a stone. The very act of walking was painful, and with every step, it felt as though the wind were violently stabbing me with knives of ice. Hoping for some sort of reprieve, I walked to the only place I had figured would be soulless enough to be open on Christmas Eve: Walmart. 

Yeah, here’s the thing… it wasn’t (eat your heart out, Ebenezer).

I had nothing but my dad’s old military coat and my phone to keep me warm and there wasn’t a soul around; the parking lot was completely vacant. Initially, I felt that this would only be a setback, texting Jerk to come and pick me up. He—angry that anyone dare interrupt his plans with their selfish desire to live—told me that he was with his girlfriend. I mean, it’s great that he was spending time with his girl on Christmas Eve n’ all, but I’ve never had any interest in climbing Mount Everest for this very reason. I would have appreciated a bit of consideration, other than a potential graveside visit. Being half-frozen as I was, I had barely been able to type that I couldn’t feel my fingers—or my toes, for that matter—before coming to the grim realization that there would be no response and no rescue. As someone who only worked in the town I was in at the time—and not knowing whether anyone else would even be awake at such an ungodly hour—I sat down on the pavement and waited, patiently, to, heh, ya’ know… die.  

It was true that I had faced death before, the same as anyone does growing up: hospitals, funerals, video games; I had faced death, sure, but never true mortality. I wasn’t in a good place mentally, either: aside from the initial panic, the thought that I might actually die hardly fazed me at all: “[shrug] Why be afraid of losing your life if you don’t have a life to lose?”. I was getting bored though, so I decided to look up some music on my phone to pass the time.  

The signal was spotty at best and couldn’t load very well. I scrolled through and found a fan-made music video of the song “Journeyman” by Iron Maiden from their album Dance of Death. The song speaks of the finality of death, the beauty of life; how life is never as hopeless as it seems and that one’s circumstances are always changing if they are willing to make it happen. “Never give up because-“ blah, blah, blah, we get it (horrible album art too, ‘good song though). The video was made with clips from a quaint little anime called Chrono Crusade, a show that—as can be deduced from the blatantly Christian imagery—has religious themes (like demons and nuns and guns and demons fighting alongside nuns who like guns) it’s… a weird show−awesome−but weird.

As the video ended, I saw lights and heard a car honking its horn. I stood up and walked over, wondering just who could be out driving this late on Christmas Eve. Who would be so utterly insane−aside from yours truly−to brave the cold on such a holiday, and at this hour, no less...? 

“Mark, is that you? Get in, you must be FREEZING!” It was a classmate—and dear friend—of mine, who lectured me like a mother hen. She had shown up to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, thinking that Walmart was open. She called another friend of ours, who promptly drove up to get me and was angry that I hadn’t called him sooner. Just like that, I was saved from going out à la Jack Torrence: “HEEERE’S JOH- HOLY-crap, he's already DEAD…! Well... that was anticlimactic...”.  

It was someone I knew, at the most unexpected time, and at an extremely low point in my life: “Merry Christmas, you get to live...” 

If that’s not a “miracle” then I don’t know what is; maybe finding the missing sock in the dryer, but that’s beside the point…

I'm a bit of a misfit where religion is concerned. I had a mostly Christian—if not chaotic—upbringing. I try to follow Christian/Stoic ethics and morals: be kind to people (even if they aren’t), don’t take what isn’t yours, don’t be given to anger/hatred, etc., but I can’t say that I’m intent on joining a monastery anytime soon. This being said, I am no Atheist, and certainly not an Antitheist. 

I am, however, a man of reason and philosophical contemplation; and although I’m much more discerning regarding such things than I was in the past, I still can’t help but to question that skepticism with each Christmas that passes... But maybe I’m just Agnostic. I do believe that if there is a god/goddess/what-have-you, then they are, at the very least, benevolent in nature, if not all-powerful. 

This is where I’m gonna’ be real for a minute or two, so bear with me−I’m playing dead, so I think I’m safe−bad pun, I know… A-Anyway, this last part might get a bit sentimental:

Truth be told, I've never been good with social cues or graces, as many who know me personally would undoubtedly attest. In becoming aware of this, I’ve always kept myself at arm’s length from other people, never quite being all that comfortable in crowds or at gatherings.  

This self-conscious ouroboros has led me to having a decidedly avoidant view of the world or as a dear friend of mine—who will be mentioned again later on—put it, my “defending my castle from attackers when the attackers are all dead and the wounded are in need of healing”. As you can imagine, this hasn’t made me the life of any parties, other than those involving self-pity…

What little friendships I do have, I cherish deeply, and I would be willing to freely admit that those true friends, to me at least, are my family. 

As of now, I’m in a much more prestigious position—doing office work—and about ten credits shy of an associate's degree, with plans to go for a bachelor’s in communications and a master’s in Professional Writing. The latter, I owe to that same dear friend’s husband—another dear friend and mentor of mine—who has pushed me—kicking and screaming—to go to college and to make something of myself while I’m still alive. I was on the Dean’s list this year, so that’s a start... 

There’s a moral to every story, so here goes: our fates are always uncertain. Good or bad, fate shifts over time, and nothing is truly as it seems.

As far as my remaining time goes, Marcus Aurelius already said it best in Meditations, so how in the tap-dancing holy hell am I supposed to compete with him on this kind of stuff? I dunno...

In any case:

“Consider yourself to be dead, and to have completed your life up to the present time; and live, according to nature, the remainder that is allowed you...” 

‘Will do, man. 👍🏻 

(And last I heard, Jerk was going bald, so there’s that…)