When I Open My Eyes
On the ones who are there
When you faint, there’s no worrying about who’s not there.
I’ve passed out on airplanes and in restaurants and at my homie’s crib, which is to say I’ve opened my eyes to all kinds of people.
There was the horror on the face of my little sister as she ran from the sight of my vomit-covered shoes. There was the physician with the annoying kids and the ER nurse who rubbed Elizabeth’s back and told her it was going to be okay. Her and her family offered to cover our dinner before the restaurant owner told them it was on him. He got Elizabeth’s number so he could make sure everything was okay, and months later, we sent him a box of ice cream to say thank you for everything.
Just recently, I’ve started to realize how deeply disorienting it is to not be in control of my body. I have very little understanding of what my body does when I faint and no sense of what’s happening around me. In most cases, I just wake up to help.
The help usually comes in a series of rushed questions, but it’s help nonetheless.
What’s your name? Where are you? What day is it?
Elizabeth knew I’d be alright when the paramedic asked me who the president was and I spat back his name with the venom only one can produce when that president wants to grind him and his people into a powder that has no chance at concealing his burnt leather face.
I didn’t get a choice of who was there or what I’d be met with when I opened my eyes. There is no who’s who or what’s what. Who is who, and what is what, and I am simply lying before you in a pool of sweat wondering if this is real life or a dream.
I’ve asked that same question during the past few days. After two years of my homie telling me I should go, I finally gave in and traveled to Austin for a creative retreat he hosts. I was joined by other artists, and all he asked is that we were open to better understanding ourselves and each other.
On the first night, we went one by one and told everybody something about ourselves. I shared with most folks that I’m a chronic fainter. I had no reason for sharing this other than inadvertently explaining all the water I would drink and, as a result, my many bathroom trips. They shared themselves with me and kept sharing themselves with me, and I lingered on the last night despite my early flight because I wanted to keep hearing their laughs and stories and soak up what I could.
In trying to communicate how concerning these fainting spells are but also how mundane they can be, I shared about the time I fainted on a plane and no one noticed. I woke up in a cold sweat, and it was the first time I didn’t wake up to a frenzy. Even though I dread the chaos, I know that, if I was with these people, they’d see me. I wouldn’t be the tree that falls in the woods with no one to hear. We’d make a sound.
When my friend asked me to go on this retreat, I didn’t ask who’s going to be there. I rarely do. Fainting has taught me that who’s there is there—and I don’t have much of a say in who will be there for me. My very living is a belief that there will be helpers.
And this week, I saw something I think I’ve always known: artists see.
Thank God for the artists—the ones who are there.