Eclipsing the Half-life of Trauma
Natural cycles of growth and reflection.
Eclipses occur in the same zodiac sign every 18 years. Whether you believe in astrology or not, there is no disputing that nature follows cycles. Natural Law, and all. These cycles of astronomical movements and relationships between Earth and the cosmos are in fact, truth. But even without understanding the complex mathematics or divination of astrology, 18 years is a nice chunk of life to reflect upon.
For me, this cancer eclipse is especially poignant. It marks my half-life. 18 years ago, I was 18. A memorable time in my life for some distinct reasons. A time I remember vividly enough to recall and draw some profound conclusions from. There is one event in particular that I’ve never been shy to discuss in person but haven’t found the courage to put in words. Ironic for someone who has no reservations putting anything in writing.
My senior year of high school foreshadowed my future career as a futures and options trader. Cue, volatility! I was the captain of the ice hockey team, I had a long term girlfriend, I got into some amazing universities and had no concerns about academics. I also got a dream internship at SFX. Working in the media and sports department and well on my way to becoming the next Jerry Maguire — of Russian hockey players, of course.
The 36-year-old me will tell you the signs were all there. I was Jerry Maguire with a redhead girlfriend, on my way to college and my hometown felt stale. I missed the parties. I missed the senior cut days. I had already moved on. Checked out. A disconnect with old friends was bubbling beneath the surface. And the 18-year-old me would probably have agreed, this facade would crack eventually.
The stage was set for the inciting incident. And what better setting for a high school drama than prom. By the end of my senior year, I had already attended two proms, and both of them went somewhat sour. This one would be different. I had worked all year to have money to pay for all of my shit. The limo, the swag, etc. — living life without fear, putting 5-carats in my baby girl's ear.
I was also a budding night club promoter. Promoting for Westchester favorites such as Palladium and Emanon, and starting to get my feet wet in the NYC scene. I had done well. My long abandoned friends were going to love me again! I had secured a real score for the Irvington High School graduating class. Passes to Sound Factory that enabled prom-goers to celebrate in style and spend their after-prom at the mecca of New York dance music. I found a young NYC promoter named Michael Julian and secured these passes for half the high schools in Westchester County. Maybe not half, but definitely the cool ones that got it.
I felt great — it was pretty clear I was the man. One prom and graduation away from the rest of my life. Celebrating this milestone by attending mass at Sound Factory for the first time. What I thought would be my initiation into a world I was so looking forward to being a part of — personally and professionally. Part time of course, because I would spend my future fantasy days as Jerry Maguire-ov. I wanted to do it all!
When I first opened my eyes, the face I saw was Matt Schaeffer’s. He was a kind and serious person as I recall. Matt was also one of a few teenagers who had volunteered at the Irvington fire department and EMT brigade.
My heart sank. I knew this wasn’t going to be a good wake up call. I tried to force my way up. Corrine was there as well looking much calmer than most people would — given the situation.
“You need to stay down, Len. Just relax. EMTs have been called, everything is going to be alright.” Matt said.
In the next seconds, I had realized I’m laying in a pool of my own blood. Sprawled out in the middle of the dance floor, high above the Soho skyline, on the top floor of the famous Puck Building. Prom was indeed a night to remember.
That day had started anxiously. A lot of emotions running through. A range of worries about logistics, whether the Sound Factory passes would work, all sorts of mental diarrhea. I wanted everyone to have an amazing time and somehow put myself in the middle of it all.
The 18-year-old me also wanted Corinne to look hotter than the girls at my school. I don’t know, it sounds like a stupid thing to be concerned about but I think we may have all been really stupid 18 years ago. I also felt weird about being together with my girlfriend and my friends at the same time… for a prolonged period of time.
Corinne wasn’t much into partying or drinking. Shenanigans that used to be regular fixtures of my weekends. Nearing the fated event, the resentments were real and likely came from all sides. My friends, Corinne, and myself. I kept thinking that safety in numbers would prevail.
By the time Corinne’s mom had dropped her off at my place, I had already had a few drinks. My mom and sister had poured me some cognac and I was beginning to settle into a comfortable groove. Corrine stepped out of the Jeep and a weight dropped off my shoulders — she looked hot! She had fire red hair like no one’s ever seen and wore a blue sparkly dress to look like Little Mermaid. I dug it.
After the initial comfort set in, the drinking continued at the pre-prom festivities. And only accelerated on the party-bus. With no supervision and an hour ride to Manhattan with a dozen of your friends, we were getting loose!
Soon after getting to the Puck Building the vibe started shifting. My friend Dan was acting strange. We all laughed as he bent the spoons and forks at our table in half. It was funny. Dan was the quintessential meat-head — except he was smart. Which made his violent transgressions somehow more comical but no less dangerous. A varsity football player and exceptional wrestler, Dan prided himself on his strength. In a fickle world of high school popularity, we all had our thing — that was his.
When the mood at our table dove into full teenage drunken buffoonery, Corrine and I stepped away. We found a windowsill overlooking a skylit New York City and marveled at how amazing it was for us to be there, at that moment. The DJ played everyone’s favorite songs, and we were only a few hours away from…Sound Factory!
In the corner of my eye, I saw a projectile. In an instant, a red virgin daiquiri landed at our feet. Splattering us in red ice. This was the point of no return. The next moments are my last memories before seeing Matt’s face.
I got up from the windowsill and walked over to the table of our friends. I approached Dan, sitting down at the time, and shouted,
“What the fuck is your problem?”
I shoved him hard in his chair and seeing no response, no acknowledgment, no conscious assessment of what he had done, I turned my back and walked away. We were friends for six years. My first concert, Black Sabbath, was with Dan and his father. We had done everything together. Drunken naked runs around peaceful New York suburbia. Performed together, rehearsing for our band Cobra Strike in Dan’s basement. This was the end of a friendship.
I walked back to Corinne by the windowsill. Her beautiful sparkly blue dress covered in a red daiquiri, both of us not knowing that by the end of the night the red stains would only deepen and spread.
I remember the kindness, compassion, and professionalism of the EMTs. They made a really complex situation feel routine. I remember the utter embarrassment of being wheeled out on a gurney, my whole graduating class watching in disgust. Dan and I had ruined their prom. Just like we authenticated so many other Irvington institutions with our unique brand of non-conformity.
I remember seeing Dan in the corner of my eye in handcuffs.
I was admitted to a wonderful neighborhood hospital called St. Vincent’s. Closed since 2010 due to budget cuts and now the site of a multi-million dollar condo development. It was clear by that time that most of the damage was to my face. The initial right hook from behind that landed on the right side of my nose and cheek was enough.
A plastic surgeon was called while I waited for my parents to arrive. In hindsight, I feel incredibly lucky. Lucky that the subsequent kicks that Dan delivered after the initial punch knocked me out had landed on my already limp and unconscious body. Lucky that Matt was an EMT and was able to professionally hand me off to the NYC emergency services. Lucky that the quaint Greenwich Village hospital had a renown plastic surgeon on call. Lucky for Dr. Adam Kolker’s humor in an incredibly difficult situation.
“We’re going to go to a mirror and you’re going to tell me where your nose used to be.”
I replied,
“I’m pretty sure it was somewhere between my eyes.”
“Good, that’s what I thought.” He laughed.
When I went into surgery around 5:30 on Saturday morning. Three out of four bones in my nose had been shattered and I would wake up several hours later with a new face. The last memory before awakening was an eclectic anesthesiologist named Igor, counting me down…10, 9, 8, 7
The summer of 2001 was not what I had imagined. It was tense. Rigid. Limiting. It would take me another two years to make it to my Sound Factory initiation. Graduation was isolating. While I was walking in the ceremony, Dan was barred. His prom night was spent in NYC’s infamous detention center, The Tombs. The administration didn’t want a criminal at the festivities.
Our classmates resented us both. My unhealed bruises, a painful reminder to all, of the last memories we would share.
A few weeks after prom, I would be questioned by the Manhattan District Attorney concerning Dan’s charges. I refused to put him through any more pain — his path already felt far more arduous than mine.
A few new habits spontaneously arose. Extreme nausea with the faintest of olfactory and taste sensations, and uncontrolled crying. None I understood, accepted or discussed with anyone. These symptoms would haunt me for over a decade. Conveniently, my sister needed a house sitter and I had spent that summer living alone with her two cats.
As suicidal as this portrait may seem, I felt truly grateful to be alone with my pain then.
I started my freshman year of college that September weighing 130 pounds. At times I needed to sit down to catch some energy during the endless orientation day.
I would do anything to go back and reverse that event. The 36-year-old me, on today’s cancer eclipse, would walk over to Dan and pull up a chair. Put my hand on his shoulder and ask if he’s alright. Offer to step outside and walk around the block. But that’s not what happened. Now, there are some definite conclusions I can draw having perspective.
That event sent a shock through my entire system. I forgot about Jerry Maguire. And wouldn’t have the confidence to step into a club for several years. But I was enthralled with Drew University. The beautiful campus. 10–1 student-teacher ratio. Roundtable intellectual discussions. Film and literature classes. It felt like therapy. Or rather, my 36-year-old self now realizes, it felt like therapy!
I was acing every class. I met new friends who encouraged me to coach and I became a successful travel ice hockey coach. Winning several national and international tournaments with my squad of Mini-Ninjas. All while preserving the 4.0! I’m continuously proud of how many of these stick-wielding Ninjas, from the quaint NYC suburbs, made it to the top of Division I programs and even the NHL!
In a way, prom detoured me from the temptation of NYU parties, endless drinks, fake ids, and another friend that played fast and loose in those circles… cocaine. At least for two years.
The first time I would hug Dan after our prom would be the first night I saw and tried cocaine. We loaded up the rocket where we left off and shot off to the dark side.
By that time my keystone habits at Drew University and coaching were forged in stone. The parties and seedy clubs only fueled my desire of becoming an authentic version of American Psycho and keep driving towards perfection. When Dan and I were going to weekly parties at Stereo and spraying champagne with New Yorks’s trust fund scene, I still kept a schedule of ten hours of private lessons a week, two practices, two games, full-time college, and at one point a Morgan Stanley internship. Life was fucking fast!
Dan had a harder time and eventually fell into a pattern of drug and alcohol abuse. I remember one specific incident where I left my hallucinating friend on the stoop of a Westside brownstone. Confident that he could convey to the cabby where he lived. Apparently, he could not. We were coming from Sound Factory, of course! Eventually, Dan went to rehab and was the first of our crew to go alcohol-free. It would take me a decade to join him despite never feeling I ever had an issue with it.
Unfortunately, we can never see the full picture of our life in the moment of instigation. Perspective is a powerful tool. But sitting here writing this reflection, that took me 18 years to share, I find myself on another monumental precipice…
Having spent three of the past years building a completely new-paradigm (w)holistic consulting agency, immigrating to two countries in two years, getting robbed while living in Ibiza, and investing all I have into a vision of the future — the time to fly or die is now! Just yesterday our last possessions that have been sitting in a Brooklyn storage unit for 30 months finally made it to Amsterdam. A chapter has been closed and today, a new one opens. As I face the uncertainty of the future with the certain knowledge that I can never return to the past, what might I tell myself in 18 years?
Something quite similar to what I would tell my 18-year-old self waking up with one hell of a post-prom hangover…
“Everything will heal.”
Physical. Emotional. Karmic. Give it work and give it time.
“You’ll look better and more radiant than you ever did.”
As you shed a layer of density and open yourself up, your inner joy will shine through.
“When the dust settles and the booster rockets fall away, your path will be clearer than it ever was.”
Not all things, people, places are timeless. Allow pieces to fall away without attachment.
“You may have never worked at Sound Factory, but you will get to promote for a whole new generation of clubs. Legendary NYC meccas of champagne and exuberance, such as Lotus and Marquee.”
Don’t think about it as missing out but as something more rad just beyond the horizon!
“And, your promoting WILL be part-time because you’re going to be slinging derivatives at the incomparable 1585 Broadway equity trade-floor of Morgan Stanley.”
Your wish is your command.
“Put the drink down and light a J, it will change your life.”
Understand what hurts you and what heals you and do some research.
“You’ll one day be a groomsman at Dan’s wedding and help each other through some of the toughest moments in your lives.”
Never underestimate the power of life to bring and keep people together.
“The bright days ahead will be brighter than you ever had before and nothing like you could possibly imagine now.”
The harder you work and the more you sacrifice, the more pleasantly surprised you’ll be at the reality you’ve manifested.
“Don’t wait 18 years to thank the people that are there to catch you when you fall.”
Gratitude. Always.
While I will never convince everyone that astrology carries meaning beyond the physical, visible world, I hope I can at least convince you to pay attention. Pay attention to the natural cycles of life. Use them to reflect. Draw all of the data to the surface and be honest about how you choose to file it. Categories matter. They will define your entire experience. You can be traumatized by the experience, or you can be empowered. Which category would you choose?
We are the manifesters of our reality. Our intentions lead the charge. Our actions and will power to fight for our intentions take us the rest of the way. Then magick happens. But it takes time.
If you take a step back and remember what you had intended, you may just realize you’re exactly where you wanted to be. Take notice, take a deep breath, enjoy the moment of completion. Then keep reaching, reflecting, growing, and expanding.
Let today’s celestial event stop time, if only briefly. To see inside. Feel the truth. Release and be Unlimited.
…
I give thanks to all who played a part in the story of my life. Today and every day. I give thanks to my team of DéWarrior Nomads who are here with me now and have been for three years. Catching me when I fall and boosting me into battle when I need it most. I give thanks to my wife, love and co-founder Polina with whom, over the past nine years, we’ve cultivated a vision of a better future. Thanks to my best friend, co-founder, and head of design Peter — creator of Griffins. I give thanks to Elii, Hawk, and Alex whom I met on top of a mountain while living with a Lakota Chief. I give thanks to the magick that united us all.
I will never need to wait another 18 years to give “Thanks” because thanks is the currency we store in our banks.
To those most affected on that night, 18 years ago, I am forever grateful for your guidance. Corrine. Matt. The prom DJ (apparently, that night a DJ did save my life!).NYC Emergency Services. Dr. Adam Kolker. Mom and Dad.
Dan for being a genuine friend through over a generation of quantum entanglement that neither of us could fully understand. Who through his struggle inspired countless other people to examine their lifestyle and shift their perception. A loving father and husband and a warrior continuing to strive to improve himself, each and every day.
I give thanks to everyone reading this article. For sharing this space and resonating with me. I hope reflection and perspective will embolden your life.
Michael Julian, thanks for hooking up those Sound Factory tickets; I heard my traitor friends had a great time as Dan went to jail and I was wheeled out. And fucking Igor! Oh my God, am I ever thankful for Igor.
