The acrid smell of diesel fuel stung my nose, jarring me awake. I was cold beyond shivering, bound in some kind of tight suit, confused and feeling nothing. I was numb, a block of stone covered in snow. 

Then I noticed the crystalline sky above the mounds of puffy clouds in shades of bluish gray. The stars were bright, beautiful and I sighed in relief. It was over. “If this is the end of my life, it isn’t so bad “… my parting thought as I was once again enveloped in darkness. 

Bright lights burned the back of my eyelids. I gingerly opened them to see my icy cold fingers clinging to the metal bars next to a toilet. I was in a hospital.

“She’s in there peeing,” I heard a woman say. She was standing in the doorway. A nurse. “Blood.” That was all I could get out before the little strength that remained in my limbs began to give way. I started to fall. 

Alarmed voices filled the small room while hands kept me upright as my legs were flailing in a pool of slippery blood puddling at my feet. I was giving way, fading from this life. Then the quiet darkness moved in again. Nothing but a dreamless, cold sleep. Midnight, November … 35 years ago … 

The next few days found me lying in a bed in that same hospital with tubes connected to my arms, coming in and out of consciousness. I had miscarried, and had been bleeding out. A caring friend had dialed 911 to have me air lifted to the hospital, since the only way into town from my country home involved a bridge that had fallen into the raging waters of a major river. 

November, month of pilgrims, pumpkins, turkey and gravy. The beginning of the holiday season. A time for giving thanks, celebrating loved ones and life. November is also a month that haunts me, hunts me down every year. At the end of the first week this year I foolishly thought, “Hey, I’m doing great … maybe it’ll pass me by.” Not a chance. 

Week two and there it was … inescapable as the tide, a darkness creeps into my usually optimistic nature. I’ve tried every trick I can think of to circumvent this black cloud that hovers over my world, and it hasn’t worked so far. How many times have I asked, “Why? What’s the point of reliving the darkest days of my life?” And, moreover, “How is it possible that for thirty … five … years this deep sadness visits me right on time, no matter how good my life is?”

Upon reflection I’ve come to believe that the only way through the deep depression always connected to these memories is to surrender, embrace the relentless darkness of something that completely changed my life … took me to ground zero and shook me to my very core. A harsh harbinger of opportunity to create an authentic life … one that fit the real me and not the ‘me’ I had been trying to be.

Through no malicious intent by myself or anyone else for that matter, I had dug myself into a situation that was draining the life from me. Metaphorically mirrored in my life blood spilling out on the floor. 

I guess I’m supposed to remember, really remember, the cost of living inauthentically. The price to be paid is literally, my life. Perhaps not as dramatic but just as relevant, isn’t that the price everyone of us will pay if we aren’t living our real selves? 

For me it took nearly giving my life to find myself. I had to uncover and work through layers of pretense and self-protection that still pop up from time to time. Erich Fromm said, “Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself.”* And anyone who has given birth knows it’s no picnic. 

35 years ago began an arduous self-exploration that continues to touch me deeply every November. I remember feeling at that time as though I had a cess pool inside of me that required me to fill one cup at a time, climb a mountain and only then, at the top, could I spill it out. It took years of filling, climbing, spilling until I finally touched bottom.

I may have thought that the difficulty surrounding those memories had been completely resolved, it hasn’t. I wonder if it comes to me every year like clockwork to remind me what it cost to continually renew my commitment to an authentic life.

We are going through a time of deep unrest, division, and fear for the days ahead. There are whispers of civil war, an unholy thought. I wonder if we need to ‘bleed’ out in order to create a culture of acceptance, thoughtfulness, a wholesome place for our children, and their children to come. 

I only hope we are willing to do the hard work of filling the cup, climbing the mountain, and releasing the hatred and fear until we find a better way. 

*Fromm’s use of male pronouns to reference all humankind reflects the now outdated practice of his day.