“I had an accident.”

That’s the text I sent to MY immediate circle this weekend. I don’t like to mince words. I was also in shock when I sent it. MY BP 210/120, MY body numb, and MY mind blank save for the memory playing on repeat of the first-person POV I’D just witnessed.

I had an accident this past weekend. A motorcycle accident. I was in the last half of the first day of a two-day course when it happened. Nearing the end of a lengthy skills exercise, MY brain got scrambled and I inadvertently sped up, hit a barricade, dropped the bike, and slid into a parking lot near the range.

I’M relatively alright. I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a helmet when I went down, sliding briefly on MY right side before rolling to rest on MY left. I was checked out by EMS: No skin breaks, no broken bones, could move MY finger/toes, and was ambulatory. The paramedics looked ME over, said I looked pretty good considering the accident, and cleared ME to leave on MY own volition. In the skid, I’d hit MY right side hard enough to leave feelings of superficial scraping, possible future sites of bruising.

Before you get on MY case about not seeking immediate medical attention, calm the hell down. I have an appointment with MY primary care provider to get a proper going-over and potential admonition. SIR is okay thanks to a helmet, a relatively low rate of speed, and a very concerned, capable set of instructors who ensured I was good to go before sending ME home, stiff upper lip and all that.

Of course, when I got to the safe confines of MY vehicle, I broke down and began making phone calls. The adrenaline was wearing off and MY body was starting to sing in the places where it had hit the pavement. I called the Pup who promptly said he was getting off work to come to ME. I called MY best buddy and MY Daddy who helped MY center MYSELF. At that point, MY traumatic coping mechanism of dissociation was in full-effect as MY voice took on a dreamy, detached tone, a droning rasp carrying loose-fitting words in semblances of sentences. “I’m okay…I think…“

I made MY way home, parked in the driveway, and proceeded to try to put on a set of new seat covers for MY vehicle. Why? I don’t know. The box was sitting in the backseat along with MY newly-scarred helmet and hastily packed backpack I’D taken to class. Numbly, I rolled down all the windows. Numbly, I opened the box and draped the covers over the front seats. Numbly, I struggled to get the rear seat cover on before numbly realizing it wouldn’t adequately cover MY backseat’s configuration. (No great loss.) I sat there in the backseat, door open, and stared at…everything and nothing until the Pup arrived in his car. He got out and promptly came over to hug ME, telling ,E that I’M okay and I’M safe. Good boy. Very good boy.

Over the course of the last 48 hours since the accident, I’VE been doing a lot of thinking and feeling. Two things came to mind within the hour following the crash: Third Eye Blind’s song “My Hit & Run” and the scene from Clueless where Tai Fraiser is recalling her brush with death when she was dangled over a railing at the mall. (“Was it, like, a montage of all the scenes in your life?” “Not. Not exactly a montage, but it’s…Right before you die, your mind just sort of gets very clear. It’s…It’s a very intense spiritual thing.“)

MY mind’s way to processing life events like a motorcycle crash is to pull in music and pop culture references from MY life. Clueless was relatively significant for ME as a closeted gay boy on the Dine Reservation; being 14 or 15 at the time, I was introduced to Paul Rudd’s dashing immortality and the Old School charm of Justin Walker’s Christian Stovitz, one of the first portrayals of a gay man on film that wasn’t shrouded in the caricatures and stereotypes of the 90s.

Since the accident, I’VE been getting a lot of rest and am allowing MYSELF to exist peacefully without self-reproachment, doubt, or whatever else might come up for someone who has crashed a motorcycle. I messaged with a concerned friend a couple of nights ago and that was a comfort because MY body was wired even as MY mind was racing.

Because I like compartmentalizing and using headings, here are five points that that’ve come to light following this weekend’s accident.

I’m a tough guy.

I’M relatively unscathed thanks to the gear I was wearing and the rate of speed. That said, I consider MYSELF in decent shape with relatively quick physical healing periods. To be able to walk away with a slight limp and a remarkable lack of bruising a day later is a win. As someone whose endured a lot of pain throughout life, I’VE learned how to handle it with near-ease and respect. The amount of ink and piercings I have provide some testament to MY endurance (and preference) for pain. While MY body cannot speak for the crash, MY helmet and boots tell the tale. I count MYSELF fortunate and glad that MY body was able to handle this sort of trauma. I don’t break easily, I never have, and that is a blessing. I wasn’t always this tough though. In fact, to look at MYSELF in those younger years, I’m surprised sometimes at how much I’VE changed. Before the military and its associated traumas, before the heartbreaks and the loneliness, before the disillusion and misanthropy, before the alcoholism and the downward spiral to death, I was sheltered and naive. It’s not a criticism of MY upbringing; in fact, to have held on to so much youthful innocence until I turned 18 is a sort of triumph of MY upbringing. I was loved and protected by an imperfect but great family. Up until MY shipping out date for basic training, the only dent in MY universe was the death of MY grandmother when I was 14. By then, I’d had four years to process and grow while seeing the gradual dissolution of what was once a cohesive family unit. By September 1998, it was time for ME to step out and away from the safe but crumbling confines of family into the world.

Toughness isn’t a given, no one is born tough. It is instilled and fostered through trial and tribulation, failure and fighting, and coming to terms with hard realities of the world. All these things create callouses on the soul that can hurt or help as life goes on. There was a time when facing racism and homophobia would cause ME to wither, but age has taught ME that these shitty things can be used to MY benefit in strengthening MY resolve.

In the instance of this weekend’s motorcycle crash, I’VE chosen to see that group learning may not be for ME and that there are other avenues to pursue in finding MY place in the world of motorcycling. I’M not ruminating on the failure because there is no utility in that. No, instead, I am channeling the experience into future plans. You see, toughness isn’t just physical, it’s a capacity to learn from mistakes and move forward to what’s next with a sense of informed hope. Toughness is what happens when one uses fucked up and/or scary experiences to better themselves rather than settling in victimhood and waiting for rescue. Toughness is knowing that you’re on your own and that no one can save you but YOU. It’s understanding that you have to keep going, even if it’s alone, until the mission is complete while acknowledging that you are not invincible.

To that end , this leads to the next point…

I’m not superhuman.

As I get older, this point becomes more apparent. Gone are the days when I could run/walk two miles on a twisted ankle (unless I have to), so are the days when I could jump across sandstone chasms with reckless, youthful abandon. Healing takes a little longer now and that’s okay, it’s a part of life. What is relatively new is the concept of self-care.

These days, I strive to MAKE time to rest, recuperate, and reevaluate instead of having circumstances force ME to take a timeout. I can spend a weekend hosting events and attending parties and need about two to four days of quiet time to get back to stasis.

MY social battery was never large to begin with and I’VE never had the capacity for gab in gatherings. I’D much rather hang back, light a cigar, and scowl from a dark corner than make MY way through a crowd, kissing babies or whatever. I prefer to watch the crowd and preserve MY energies for worthwhile interactions than engage in small talk. “I’m okay, this weather sucks…now leave me the fuck alone.” I may not be superhuman but I am cranky which is just the way I like it.

I know that I could’ve really been hurt this weekend but I wasn’t; that doesn’t mean I’M going to get back on a motorcycle and start again right away. What I am going to do is take the time to allow MYSELF to heal. Today, there was no bruising or pain in the scraped areas. That doesn’t meant I’M 100%, not yet, I’VE got to have MY doctor check ME out.

I’m not afraid to die.

There was a time when I wished for death, every day. I drank nights away and begged for the fortitude to push the blade past the first layer of skin. I’D done it before, after all, in a fit of drunken rage. Taking a kitchen knife, I sliced deep into MY forearm as a form of revenge to get back at a toxic ex. I knew I had it in ME and I didn’t care if it meant shrugging off this mortal coil. That was the rub, I’D had a hand in and had seen enough death during MY young life that it didn’t faze ME. War had opened MY eyes to death and the cursed nature of man as I bore witness to the things we visit upon one another for the sake of ideologies. Religion, patriotism, racism, each feeding the great machine of war with body after body, day after day. Beheadings, bombings, burnings, blood and more blood; from it all, Death and I became well-acquainted

I knew It and It had taken residence in ME, a comforting black vine entangling itself throughout MY soul, creating a shadowy cage around MY heart. Death had visited ME when It took MY grandmother, giving ME the Its first heavy, sweet taste, like maple syrup and belladonna. Years later, Death came to ME every day as I watched the casualties climb, kickstarted by the fall of the Twin Towers. Death showed up, large and looming, riding smoke and wreckage before coming forward to be with ME full-time. Alone, I took It in and we became great companions as It offered atrocities for ME to analyze and assess so that more death could be created in a brutal symbiotic dance.

What has struck ME about this situation is how major it is to everyone but ME. Was I scared? Sure, when the crash was done, I had lots of fear but it wasn’t about ME. I was more afraid that I’D hurt someone though the instructor did get out of the way and the parking lot was unmanned. As I was losing control of the bike, I remember a feeling of acceptance that things were literally out of MY hands because I’D sped up to past the point of no return. Front and rear brakes were of no use at that point; it was best to let it happen and hope that it all panned out as positively as possible. Was I thinking about dying? No. In fact, I had entered a state of quiet acceptance and resignation amid the chaos.

As I hit the barricade, I felt the motorcycle tip and fall before I felt MY right side slide and bounce off the pavement. MY helmeted head made contact with something and suddenly all was still. I ended up on MY left side, MY left arm beneath MY head. Stunned, MY body began immediately assessing its condition: Nothing broken, no feelings of bleeding, I could move MY fingers and toes, no notable numbness. I was checked out by EMS and deemed well enough to leave on MY own.

Not once did it occur to ME that this could’ve been fatal. Even as I was lying there, shaking and silent, MY breath shallow as pinpoints of pain started to blossom across the right side of MY body. All I knew was the moment and there was no Death there though I’M certain It had briefly held vigil as I fell gracelessly to the pavement. Within the hour though, when the adrenaline had worn off and the pain began in earnest, there was a whisper: “I’m always here, chère, but it wasn’t your time. You know I will always be there when you fall…just in case.“

To be clear, I’M grateful to be alive because I’VE got so much left to do in this life and, now, I’VE got so many things to be thankful for. The next point, for one.

I have folx who love & care about me.

In the times before recovery, MY world was small. In the military, I’D chosen to exist as an island, solitary and self-sufficient. I could count people I regarded as friends on one hand and even then, it came down to three people. When I decided to end it all, all I had were two very good friends who are with ME today. These two saved MY life even after I’D put them through hell as I raged in MY disease. We’d trauma-bonded under the control of a cultish leader touting his noble cause. That’s how it is though, cults always have a good line to draw you in. One thing leads to another and you find you’ve relinquished all sorts of control while shrinking in fear of the leader’s wrath. We met under these circumstances and have since kept in touch.

When I got into recovery, I found more people though I was suspect. I’D been trained to believe that all relationships were transactional, that everyone wanted something in return be it sex, money, or work. Everything had a price, a hug, a kiss, whatever I needed, I had to be ready to owe in some way. I was so steeped in this mindset that, when I came into Alcoholic Anonymous, I was worried that this would have to be another thing I’D have to endure. I was like an abused animal, feral with fear and angry because I’D been alone for so long. That and MY brush with Death on MY own terms had failed remarkably. Back then, Death wasn’t so gentle with ME: “Stay in your own lane, fucker, I’ll come for you when it’s time; don’t try to skip the queue. Now, fucking live, asshole, and leave the dead and dying to me.“

I had nowhere to go but forward even as I glanced tearfully and regretfully at Death who shook Its head reproachfully. Fuck, Death didn’t want ME; hell, I didn’t want ME but there I was, alive, regretful, and clueless about an unwanted future.

But that was the beauty of recovery, the rooms, the words, the people, all of these things culminated into something I needed even if I didn’t feel like I did. Deep down in the dredged lake of my soul, something began to grow. It started with two people, one of which has grown to become one of MY very best friends, the other has been lost to time though I do see his online presence every so often. In the rooms of recovery, I’D found love and not just any love but FREE love. No price was attached, no requirement to trade, the hugs and the coffee were all free. All I had to change was everything even though I’d given up everything including the will to live.

Now, nearly 19 years into recovery, I can say with certainty that I am thankful to be alive. These years have been good ones, even the hard years. I found steady work, got a degree, married a good man, and am pursuing a life I’D wanted from the day I put on MY first, secondhand Leather vest. I’M the Leatherman I wanted and needed when I first started out. I’VE met some great people and many have developed into substantial connections. I’M a presence in the Leather, Kink, and LGBTQ+ Communities and this has allowed ME to open my eyes and heart to a massive group of friends.

Days after the accident and I am still receiving expressions of concern and well-being from folx who are just hearing about what happened. There was a time when I’D’vE been wary and annoyed by the attention but that’s past. Now, I’M heartened by the messages and encouraged to keep moving forward. I’M no longer an island and that feels pretty fucking good.

I’m more motivated to learn.

I think it’s easy to want to give something up because of pain, disappointment, or whatever comes up when a trauma occurs. Previous trauma dictated MY life because it was something I had no control over. Years of exposure to war had pushed ME into a sustained state of traumatization. I worked, lived, breathed, and existed in war. I took death into ME voluntarily because I believed that was MY price to pay. After all, I signed up for the life and all it entailed, wartime, peacetime, there was a job to do and I made that job everything. What I did not realize, at the time, was that the very thing I was working with was reworking everything inside ME. Sleepless nights, nightmares, constant anger, persistent sadness, and pain from the guilt of living. Dissociation was MY best friend; that and heavy dosages of Kahlua in MY morning coffee and swigs of whiskey during head calls.

By the time I was discharged in 2006, I was excavated, a shell of the 18-year-old who had started eight years before. I left the base, alone and haunted, as tears of relief and sadness streamed down MY face. Gone was the life I’D learned to love with all its death and destruction, gone was the feeling of connection to something bigger than me. But there was the scant relief in knowing that I wouldn’t have to hide MYSELF anymore. That’s the thing I don’t hear much about when I hear recollections of the years under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” the constant pressure of hiding and the shadow it cast over every interaction lest one be suspected of having same-sex attractions. It was a small feeling of freedom. True, I was now free to live on MY own terms but what did that mean when I’D left a life I truly loved behind even as it was breaking ME down?

I live with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and chronic depression as a result of MY service. it took a very, very long time to get into treatment and find a regimen of medications to handle it all adequately. It’s been 20 years since I left the service but there are still ghosts that haunt me even though I’VE made strides in recovery and living. Would I want to go back in the military? In the early days post-discharge, yes, I did; now, I’m content being a cantankerous Veteran with a damn good life full of Leather, cigars, Kink, and amazing people. (BTW, if we’ve ever met or interacted on FaceySpace, you fall into this category. Don’t let that go to your head.)

Flash forward to today: Would I ever want to get back on a motorcycle considering I wiped out on one a couple days ago? Short answer: Hell yes, I want to.

It’s not that I have a death wish nor is it because I feel like I have something to prove. I would climb back onto a motorcycle because…I fucking want to, that’s why. There was a sense of accomplishment and exhilaration when I was able to ride without touching the ground. For a few laps, I was truly riding and it felt amazing. This is something I want to do and, if it means going another route to learn so I can get licensed, I want to do it.

If anything, I’m more motivated to learn now that i know I can do it. I was ALMOST to the end. I just wished my body and mind had been in agreement before I tried to make that final stop.