Normally when something terrible, or tragic, happens, I instinctively want to write about it in order to mentally work my way through the tragedy. It helps me focus, allows me to get thoughts out of the way so that I may have a better chance of coping. I am given the opportunity through art and written word to come to peace with whatever has occurred.

So when I scrolled through my blog to discover no such post existed for April 25, 2019, I was actually a little surprised. Then again, when I think back to that day, I am also not surprised. A year has passed now, and I finally feel I am able to bury my dead, so to speak.

April 24, 2019, I was working at Motel 6 in Ruston, Louisiana. The shift wasn’t particularly eventful, though I was drowning in laundry left over by the morning shift. I knew if I didn’t get it done, I was going to have to do it in the morning as I was scheduled for a turnaround shift the next day. I was stressed out, going through a few personal things, on top of the struggle of being generally unhappy in my position. Between accidental poisonings when someone decided to mix the wrong chemicals together, to various and assorted drama, I was not looking forward to spending my entire shift folding sheets. I called on my dear friend Megane, who happily came in on her off day to assist me, and we spent the day laughing while digging our way out of the laundry hole.

A customer came into the motel, who was particularly rude and argumentative over the tiniest things. I wanted him as far away from me as possible, so I sent him to the very last room in the front of the property. I’d checked in a number of guests that night, situating them in various places throughout the motel. Eleven, to be exact. But that guy, the last guy, just left a sour taste in my mouth. I knew there was no way I could simply go home and sleep after such an interaction, so Megane and I sat outside and visited while I calmed down.

It was getting late. But I wasn’t ready for sleep just yet. I wanted to stay awake and visit more, so the thought occurred to me to get a room for the night. Megane and I could visit a bit longer, and I wouldn’t have to worry about driving in the morning. My phone, meanwhile, chirped away in my pocket warning me of a thunderstorm. I ignored it, as I often did, because in Louisiana we get bad storms all the time. Being the homebody that I am, however, I decide at the last minute to just go home, lose the extra sleep, and return in the morning.

The week prior to April 25, I couldn’t fight the nagging feeling that I wouldn’t be at Motel 6 much longer. Truthfully, I figured I was going to be fired, given much of the drama from management. Job security wasn’t really a thing.

I made it home approximately 12:30 AM, and after tossing and turning, I finally managed to fall asleep around 1 AM.

At 4 AM I was awakened. I’m not sure by what, precisely. Out of habit I checked my phone for the time, and groaned because I probably wasn’t going to go back to sleep. I was going to be exhausted, and buried in more laundry. But my phone had blown up with notifications.

A tornado has hit Ruston.

A tornado hit Ruston around 1:50 AM.

Quickly I checked the news, but all they would focus on was Lousiana Tech University, and the damage done. Through Facebook videos I discovered the gas station right next to my motel was destroyed. The one video I saw showed Motel 6, and it appeared to be intact. Conflicting reports began to fly, and some were saying the Pizza Hut right next to the Motel had been destroyed, but Motel 6 was fine. My manager said the roads were fine to come to work, so I got dressed and drove to Ruston.

Post apocalyptic is the phrase I would use to describe what I saw. Normally busy roads were empty, replaced with downed power lines and trees. Tree limbs, dumpsters, insulation covered the roads. Signs were twisted and warped into strange figures, with signal light posts being turned entirely backwards. Roads were blocked off, power was out, and for the first time I was able to see the damage to the city that was basically a second home to me. My friends lived there, I’d gone to school there, my mom worked there. I had family not far from there.

And it was plunged into a nightmare.

I couldn’t get close to the motel. Even the back roads were completely cut off. The motel was in total isolation and no way for me to get close. I texted my manager and explained I could not get close to the building, to which he suggested I park at the library across the street and walk over. I kindly, but firmly, told him he was out of his damned mind if he expected me to walk across a street filled with downed power lines just so I could do some laundry (remember, I have not seen the damage, so to me it was a terrible tragedy happening around us, but not directly affecting me). I checked my mom’s business, and it was fine. But now I had the problem of trying to get home. With the city plunged into chaos, and no power to any of the main streets, traffic was exceptionally dangerous. So my mother helped me navigate the back roads out of the city.

As it turns out, I am not that good at taking directions and she is not that good at giving directions when she can’t see where I am. So a fifteen minute drive home turned into an hour and a half adventure through the back roads. I went to her house to pick up my daughter, and that is when the full scale of what had happened hit. A drone had been flown overhead to capture the damage.

I was stunned. Floored. Devastated. This couldn’t be real. What I was seeing could not be real. I’d seen tornado damage on television before, but never thought I’d live it.

Later that afternoon, I drove to the motel to see the damage for myself. I had to see it. Because what I saw on the news wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

It was real, and far worse than I could have imagined. As I walked around the property, surveying the damage, the bad and terrible memories were furthest from my mind. The good memories I’d made there began to skitter across my mind.

The friends I’d made there.

The jokes we’d shared.

The songs we’d sung together. 

Late night Youtube marathons.

Gone. Just like that.

I remember getting angry at all the people driving by, checking out the damage. I remember getting angry as the news crews swarmed in to record the damage. It felt too raw. Too personal. Like an exposed wound.

I was without a job, but strangely… it felt like more than that. The motel had become a central location for us to meet up and hang out, equal distance from all of our homes. It was a place to run when we needed a break from home life. It had become like a home. There were fights, and drama, but when I hugged my manager I couldn’t help but cry. In fact, all I did for the following days was cry.

Every time I had to drive by, every time I saw news footage, it was a slap to the face.

That was MY motel. I remember getting angry because there was no one to blame for it. It was a natural occurrence, nothing could have prevented it. We couldn’t have been smarter, we couldn’t have prepared, there was nothing we could have done to prevent it from happening. These things just happen, people would say, but I wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Surely someone was to blame. SomeTHING was to blame. These things don’t just happen, right?

I’d taken up drawing again in that place, had watched my skills grow better over time. I’d found my confidence as a creator again. I’d learned how to edit videos in that place, and shared my progress with my friends. I’d found confidence in ME again in that place. I’d seen the absolute truest colors of people I’d once cared for and trusted, which aided in decisions to separate from them and grow into a better person.

I’d lost my school in that place, as a month and 20 days prior to this, the school I was attending shut down, leaving me in debt with no degree. I’d cried with my coworkers.

It was more than a job, more than a building, it was so much more.

I searched for work, but things I was qualified for were either damaged from the tornado (insult), or required a degree (injury). I watched the savings I’d managed to uphold dwindle into nothingness, and was forced to rely on the kindness of others, especially my family, just to stay afloat.

My mind felt torn. Shattered.

I tried to draw, to find any way to express how I was feeling.

But I hated it. Drawing gave me anxiety. Creating gave me anxiety. The hard won progress I’d made in my creativity was gone, as far as I was concerned. I tried to write, but there were no words that could fully embrace precisely what I was feeling. I felt like I was drowning, with no end in sight. My mental health didn’t just take a hit, it was knocked backwards into a pit and each time I tried to claw my way out, I was slapped down again.

I’m afraid of storms, even more so when they come attached with weather alerts. And I feel stupid for being afraid. I used to love them. I used to sit outside for hours and let the rolling thunder calm my chaotic soul. The danger, the severity, the true power that is mother nature became real.

I lost myself in a video game, Red Dead Redemption II to be precise, because I understood the pain each of the characters were feeling. I understood the tragedy of losing everything, of feelings unresolved, of things that didn’t make sense. I understood the mental downfall, the heartache, the longing for the way things once were. I understood the need for freedom.

And the need for money, ironically.

It has taken a year for me to finally really come to terms with everything. To fully understand why I was tormented so by the loss of a job. It was, and is, a slow climb, but I did manage to climb out of the pit. I can finally look back at pictures Megane and I took within the hotel with joy and happiness rather than the urge the vomit from pain. I can finally get to work repairing myself, and finding that confidence again in who I am.  I never want to be there again, I never want to feel helpless like that again. I never want to be that close to ending my own life again. The shadows got too close, they squeezed too hard.

I have made new friends, and strengthened existing friendships. I learned who, and what, was important in my life and who, or what, was not. It took a year for me to finally start creating again, though in many ways I am not back to where I was. I did manage to write a book, a comedy, so I feel that is massive progress that I can be proud of myself for accomplishing.

So with all of the above being said, I can finally close this chapter of my life and let it rest in the past where it belongs. Though the memories, good and bad, will live with me for the rest of my days, I can look back on them as the lessons they were meant to be.

The last drawing I completed on April 24, 2019

The last photo Megane and I took outside of Motel 6 on April 24, 2019.