The blades of the ceiling fan spin above me, blurring together in one big circle. I check the time on my phone again. Only five minutes have passed since the last time I looked.
This is my life. Uneventful. Isolated. Gloomy.
I’ve become a shell of a person because it’s easier than facing my pointless future. Anything is better than that, including debilitating sadness.
I should call my therapist again and make another appointment.
I should go on a road trip and visit my parents.
I should do something—anything really—but I can’t find it in me to beat back the mist taking over my brain.
My therapist calls it depression. I call it my life post-accident.
I shouldn’t have read the article last night. The one that gave a detailed report of my three-year anniversary since my accident. It was a mistake. Any hope about returning to my previous life is extinguished with every negative sentence or article headline. They don’t talk about my successful recovery. Or how I’m able to walk like a normal man, even though I look anything but.
Although I’m physically fit, I’m mentally not. Even after three years, I still cling to old ghosts of my past. That’s what happens when I have all the time in the world to think. But with overthinking then comes my escape into numbness because it’s easier to slip into the mental space where I don’t need to care—to shut off my feelings toward my situation. Apathy is my battle armor in my harsh new reality. Because if I cared, then I’d have to embrace the awful articles published about me.
Santiago Alatorre’s new maid gives a tell-all about his disability.
Read about Santiago Alatorre’s struggle with morphine addiction, alcoholism, and depression.
Santiago Alatorre visits his therapist for the first time in months. Exclusive reports say he is actively suicidal and was rushed to the hospital.
Headlines blur together, with one essential bottom line: everyone wants to watch me fail. I thought success was what people were interested in, but in reality, they’re more invested in my downfall. Defeat sells headlines while success sells sponsorships. Not that I deal with the latter anymore. I went from being treated like a god to being nothing but a whisper of a headline once a year.
In the end, reporters are right. I’m not the same person. I can’t drive a car faster than the average speed limit without getting nauseous and paralyzed with fear. So, yeah, I’m the last racer who belongs back on the F1 grid.
My trauma gives me the perfect excuse to hide. It’s just me and my massive house, sequestered in some small lake town surrounded by Italian mountain ranges. I call it my personal hell, surrounded by paradise.
My phone’s alarm rings again. I press snooze, ignoring the tiny voice in my head pleading with me to get out of bed. The sane part of me urges me to drive my car down the winding coastal road. To shave off my beard because it’s a physical reminder of my lack of motivation. To reach out to my family and ask for anyone to visit me because I can’t stand the silence in my house for another day.
No. Everyone has moved on, and you’re just a loser stuck living in your past memories.
The hopeful thoughts scurry as the darkness takes hold again. I turn over in my bed, allowing the afternoon sunlight to warm my back. Colors drain around me as I shut my eyes, forcing myself to hide in my gray world for another day.
