05. Chapter 1: The Ending

If this audiobook is resonating with you, there are a few ways you can support this work and help it reach more people who it can help:

1) Free (and so powerful):
Leave a review on Apple Podcasts and share this with someone you love.
This is one of the most impactful ways to help this message spread.

2) Join the Substack community ($10/month):
Come deeper into this work with me on Substack, where I share weekly writing, reflections, and teachings on sobriety, yoga, and healing:
https://www.soberyogagirl.com/

3) Own or gift the book ($25):
Purchase a hard copy on Amazon - for yourself, or for a person in your life who might need this support:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1739094379

4) Practice with me in real life:
Join me for a retreat, training, or program and experience this work in a deeper, more embodied way:
https://www.soberyogagirl.com/p/upcoming-retreats-and-trainings-47b

Brene Brown said, “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through, and it will be someone else's survival guide." That is my hope for this book - that it reaches whoever it needs to reach, and supports you on your journey.

Your support in whichever way means so much!

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Chapter 1, the Ending. I was 25 years old when I came closest to dying by suicide. Ashaduan La Ilaha Ila Allah. 3 19 a.m. I was half sleeping anyway, but any part of me that was asleep rolled over and woke up to the haunting call to prayer echoing through my apartment. I'd lived in Mabula, Kuwait for two years, a few feet away from a mosque, and it had become familiar to hear this call every morning. In most parts of the world, the darkest and quietest part of the night is right before dawn. Not in Mabula. By four in the morning, water trucks were backing up, street dogs were barking, and hundreds of workers were beginning their day. They were waking up in their dorm rooms, descending from their apartments and forming lines on the road below. Crowded shuttle buses would take them to their construction sites to start their work days. It was close to 50 degrees Celsius outside, and I could imagine the salty sweat was already dripping off these men's foreheads as they stood outside waiting for their buses. I lay in bed hearing the chaos that I'd lived amongst for two years, but my mind was dissociated from the present moment. Mentally, I had left the here and now. I was floating far above my body, viewing it from overhead. I could see myself curled up in a fetal position on the mattress. My imagination took me further, up the elevator to the top of the building, the 13th floor. I'd ascended the staircase to the roof. I'd have to climb over water tanks to get to the ledge. The orange sun would soon be beginning to rise over the neighborhood. I'd feel the hot, sticky, dusty wind on my skin. The sounds from the road below would get quieter and eerier. I'd look beyond the ledge, seeing the tiny workers, the water trucks, the buses, the sand, the dust, and the sky. I imagined jumping into the air and feeling nothing as I fell through the sky for 10 seconds. My fall would be broken by the concrete below, blood splattering and limbs flattening. And it finally would be over. Four hours before, I had experienced a heartbreaking ending. I had returned to Kuwait at midnight to meet my husband after a trip to Canada for a short stopover before we took the next flight to Bali for our honeymoon. After he left, I planned to stay longer in Ubud for my 300-hour advanced yoga teacher training. I'd been looking forward to this trip since I'd booked it a year earlier, before I'd even met him. But now I no longer wanted to go to Bali at all. Chaparita, he greeted me as he wrapped me in a hug after getting out of the airport taxi in Mabula. Chaparita was the nickname I'd come to love from him, which he told me meant cute girl in Spanish. He helped me carry my heavy duffel bag through the dusty, dreary courtyard into the dull metal elevators upstairs to our new apartment, which we'd moved into only 10 days before. He wanted to show me what he'd been working on while I was away. He'd built a wooden kitchen island for our pots and pans, refitted our makeshift bathtub to have proper plumbing, and even hung a sign that said Santiago and Alex on the refrigerator door. He'd picked up hummus and pita from the grocery store because he knew it was my favorite snack. I tried to force myself to eat it while I watched him open the gift I'd bought him in Canada: two Canadian t-shirt souvenirs. I picked the salt and pepper red t-shirt because I liked it, and the geometric blue t-shirt because I knew that he'd like it. I sat down on the bed and looked at him. I hadn't planned what to say or prepared for this moment. My mind drew a blank. The silence was deafening while I tried to gather up the courage to speak. I stopped wearing the diamond ring. I whispered. What? he asked me. I cleared my throat. I'm not wearing the ring anymore. He looked at me confused. Why not? I can't wear it anymore. I love you, but I'm not in love with you.