The LIFE Project

Introduction

Hi. My name is Misha Gerrick and I'm dead. I mean... not dead dead. But... dead enough. Close enough to it for me (and honestly anyone else if I was honest with them about it) to be concerned. 

I'm not really fazed by it. Time of death is hard to establish, but I think I can safely say that the date was roughly around July 20, 2017. 

Looking at my writing records, I had a splendid, beautifully productive day on the 19th. I had hit the climactic/exciting part of a story I was drafting and wrote over 8,000 words. I remember how proud I felt. 

My life had crashed down on me in 2014, but I recovered like a champ. I got back up, dusted myself off, and kept writing. More than that, I had started a freelance business that was growing like crazy.  Although the financial recovery process was still ongoing for me and my family, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Life was looking good.

On July 20, we discovered that the light was a lie. 

I don't remember much about this day, so I'm afraid that you will have to take me as a bit of an unreliable narrator when it comes to the exact sequence of events. So for now, I will keep to the simplest of facts as I recall them. The verifiable ones, as it were. 

The shortest, simplest version is that on July 20th, my mother discovered that her brother, my uncle, who had been living with us (long story, I might get to it later) scammed us (again. LONG story) and several other people out of money. In doing so, he pushed our already staggering family to the edge of the abyss and revealed me to be the only bread-winner, providing for three families. 

Again, the details are hazy. I remember some moments that stood out, but those day-to-day moments of how we went from there are mostly hazy. The biggest thing I remember from this time is staring at a blank page when no words would come, bursting into tears, and confiding to my mother that I feel dead. Like a nuclear bomb had been dropped onto what was left of my life after 2014 and wiped it all out. 

I can't remember my mother's exact words, but it was something along the lines of "No man, don't be so over-dramatic. This is hard on all of us, but we'll get over it like we always do."

I do remember two things: 1) A sense of outrage that 2) quickly faded into what I can only describe as static. A low and consistent rumble that would stick with me to this day, November 25, 2022. What it was is hard to describe. Futile rage. Exhaustion. All mixed into the bleak, nihilistic sense that nothing I did or ever will do will ever matter. 

In short: Death. 

I died that day, and several attempts later, all I have to show for my efforts at regaining life is more loss, more destruction... more... static. 

Okay this is where I stop to reassure everyone. Yes, I've sought (and will continue to seek) help. Yes, I'm on medication that does go a long way toward keeping me from doing anything... shall we call it permanent? That help and medication is keeping me alive, and I intend to keep it that way. 

But. 

I don't feel like I'm living and I know that I am actually killing myself, just slowly and through neglect. I struggle to feel joy or meaning in anything I do. I struggle to care about the future because I don't really see the future as something I want to experience. And to be honest, I don't have a sense of self anymore. The why of that last one is definitely something I'll be going into, but you can't really feel like you matter on any level, not even to yourself, when you're dead. 

The thing is... I don't want to be dead. It's a miserable, isolating, debilitating, IRRITATING existence. I want life. I want to live. I want to do more, be more than just a functioning shadow of a human being. 

I want

Life. 

Given that my brain still functions and I'm still breathing, I know there are some signs of life in me somewhere. Right now, with a desperation I can't put into words, I want to find those signs. I want to grow them into something more until life is raging through me like a waterfall. 

I'm tired of the mask of contentment that I wear for the comfort of other people. 

I want life. 

I want life. 

I WANT LIFE!

This book will be a chronicle of my search for life. My struggle for survival. It is going to be harsh and ugly and challenging and beautiful and hopeful and everything in between. But what it will not be is something that will pull punches. I don't have that luxury. 

So. Trigger warning: I am going to discuss a whole host of things that are triggering to me and will be to at least some other people who read this. If you're in this with me, strap in and brace yourself. 

We're about to go on a bumpy ride. 

Thanks for reading! It feels a bit weird to put this here, but I know people will appreciate the reminder to vote if they liked/find value in a chapter. So please do vote and leave a comment to say hi.

Mish