Life Is Not an Accident Read Online Free PDF

a fucking moron . . . There goes the money. All the things I could imagine myself saying if the shoe were on the other foot.
    In my darkest moments, I would think about never being able to have sex again. The pelvis injury had caused such severe nerve damage that I’m lucky to be able to get an erection today. I would wonder if I would even be able to have a family one day when the time was right. And if so, would I ever be able to show my kid how to round first base or shoot a layup? It was a compilation of one depressing thought after another, leaving me on the edge of a cliff, readying myself to jump.
    One evening, my mom left the room and I noticed on my nightstand a pair of scissors that was used to change my bandages. Without a second thought, I stretched as far as possible to grab them. Being able to reach them was an accomplishment in its own right, considering I could barely move. The fact that I had them in my hand seemed like a sign that I was meant to kill myself. It was as if they had been strategically placed there by some divine power letting me know what I should do.
    With my right hand, I opened the scissors and held one of the blades against my left wrist. When I looked at the tattoo on my wrist— BELIEVE —I hesitated for a couple of seconds, and then drew the blade directly across the word, thinking, I don’t believe in shit anymore . I was so physically weak, and the blade so dull, that no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t cut deep enough. The Oxy probably didn’t help my coordination, either. I was so frail and emaciated—my arms were the size of sticks, and I weighed 140 pounds, 55 less than on the day of my accident—that after each superficial cut I was physically drained.
    On my third attempt to open a vein, my mother walked into the room, saw what I was doing, and in a frantic state grabbed the scissors out of my hand.
    â€œJason, are you trying to hurt yourself?!”
    â€œMom, I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t think I can live with what I’ve done to myself.”
    She started crying hysterically, begging me to promise I would never try to take my life again. Then she grabbed my hand and started to pray.
    I guess God was not done with me yet.

3
Gray Area
    W hen I was growing up in Plainfield, New Jersey, my parents threw these fantastic parties at our house. I loved having people over, because that meant laughter and good company. Being an only child had its obvious advantages—no annoying siblings and a room to myself—but it also got lonely at times. Maybe that’s why I overthink things so much as an adult, never having had brothers or sisters to talk to while growing up. At these get-togethers, there were plenty of kids my own age to hang out with, and I got to see my parents behave very lovingly toward each other. In some ways they may have been putting on an act for guests, but I’d like to think that maybe it helped rekindle something genuine between them.
    My mom, Althea Bowman Williams, is outgoing, energetic, the kind of person who comes to life when people are around. She’s also incredibly well-spoken and intelligent. After college shebecame a teacher, but my earliest memories were of her working as a guidance counselor. When I was in elementary school, she decided to go back to college to earn additional degrees in education. Not long after I left home for school, she accepted a position as principal at Plainfield High School.
    My dad, David Williams is more reserved than my mom, preferring to spend quality time by himself either reading, working, or playing with the dog. It’s not that he’s antisocial; he was just always more comfortable at home, his safe haven where things are the way he likes them to be.
    They met and fell in love at “the” Ohio State University—as they have trained me to say since birth. But when my dad accepted a job in Manhattan with American Express, my