Anikulapo.
Anikulapo , literally translates to ‘he who has death in his pocket.’
(This piece was not written from a place of strength, or weakness, but from genuine calm. This has also been barely reviewed, and might go back to draft soon)
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When, right after the Christmas holidays, I struggled as I feared to have taken in the last dose of air down my lungs, I had no idea how much mess I was, and was in for.
A negative covid result, plus a week full of daily hospital visits, needles and medicines should ideally have calmed the evil that was suspiciously a heightened allergic rhinitis reaction, or worse, asthma. Lol.
In the four months that will follow, I would learn to live with a prolonged resting heart rate of over a hundred beats per minute, bouts of 30mins sleep equaling an average of four hours at nights, consulted with three Cardiologists and two Psychotherapists, recurring episodes of breathlessness, loss of ~6kg of weight, and a conscious fear of dying every minute of everyday.
Life is everything we live for. Death? It is the continuous reality for our subconscious, while we live, but brought into our consciousness every once in a while. When you live with the prolonged, conscious fear of dying, you (may) lose life.
The uncertainty and inconclusiveness in the first three months of the new year led me down a path to losing life , while living— one where, too many times, I faced my tamed grief, fears, insecurities and my ordinariness. These were evident in the sleepless nights, frequent chest, left-arm and back pain (and burn), a heart rate as high as 180 and severe palpitation, dizziness, and the biggest devil, breathlessness.
On many days, I cried as I taxied to the hospital, on the phone with my closest friends or siblings. At nights, I texted my friends with genuine fear that it was my last, listened to my last music album, ate my last meal, liked my last tweet, said my final prayers and laid in bed not expecting to be up in the morning. Except that sleep wouldn’t come many of these nights; and on nights that it did, I had a short time to enjoy the calm before the devil got me up, in intense panic.
When rounds of intense and repeated laboratory tests and scans returned fine for the most part, but since all of my symptoms persisted, I was scheduled for my first meeting with a Psychotherapist — a professor.
You can imagine how unimpressed I was when the Prof. (?) wouldn’t stop asking why I’d led an introverted life, or why I hadn’t been to church in 3 years, or haven’t dated in six, or how frequently I had sex. He would conclude that I had social anxiety.
So I used all the drugs all the doctors prescribed. But at this point, I was tired of everything, and of myself. I genuinely was desperate to feel well, so I became a slave to my impulses — in hope that they would pull me back into living. I texted random people on the internet and went on dates. I travelled long distance for parties and shared selfies on the internet. I listened to Maverick city and elevation worship all day, and laid under the grind of a woman all night. I danced and drove round the city on random nights.
When I almost thought I had a grip, all of the evils came back, and more intensely. I was in Ibadan when death resurfaced. As my chest constrained and I struggled to breathe, I held the hand of my friend, and whispered what I was convinced were my last words.
A week later, I got diagnosed of anxiety and panic attack disorder — the kind that had evolved and started manifesting in the most severe, uncontrollable physical symptoms. The kind I experienced in Ibadan, and all the times before. The kind caused by the painful denial of grief, and everything in-between.
February marked the fifth year since I lost my ma. I have tamed my grief and pain for five years. I have winged my life, and subdued pain. I have relived the moment of my ma’s death, and wished that I could have done more. I have felt angry at all the money and comfort, wishing they had come earlier. I’ve wanted to share all the success with no other person and dreamt of a different outcome.
This is the cause of all the mess. Maybe?
I’m on a minimum six months-long medical treatment journey, and got my whole life to heal. It’s been some three weeks since I last felt prolonged breathlessness. I don’t feel the active presence of death anymore. Although my sleep is still shit, and I still suffer from occasional high pulse rate and palpitation, my appetite has been back and I’ve filled my stomach with more food. I’m excited about work and all the people around me. I’m hoping to run and cycle again.
For now, I want to keep death in my pocket, so I can heal.
