But did I die — still in the fight

Posted on [insert date, e.g., February 19, 2026]

Sometimes I wonder if part of me did check out back then. 17 years old, serotonin syndrome slamming me like a freight train after antidepressants piled on whatever neurotoxin bullshit started it all. Heart rate screaming past 280, 300+ bpm—alarms lighting up the ICU like a casino gone wrong. The monitor's beeping turns to constant wail because it's not beating anymore; it's spasming, fibrillating, barely moving blood. Docs rushing, nurses pinning me down through massive seizures that felt like my body short-circuiting from the inside out.

The Nights That Almost Ended It

And then the nights after—drugged out, half-conscious, someone stationed right there watching my chest rise and fall. Not leaving, not blinking, because if breathing stopped in that fragile reset phase, that was it. No second chances. I remember the weight of eyes on me, the quiet "stay with us" vibe, the fear that sleep might pull me under for good. Respiratory depression kicking in? Apnea? Whatever it was, they weren't risking it. Someone had to make sure I kept breathing while my system tried to reboot from the edge.

Did I flatline for a second? Did they bring me back with shocks or meds? Or was it just the edge so close it felt like crossing over? People may not know what I've survived—most glance and move on—but that was real. Heart rates that high aren't sustainable; it's ventricular tachycardia territory or worse, where output drops to near-zero, brain fogs, organs starve. Survival stories exist, but they're rare without fast intervention. I woke up anyway. Alive, but wired different forever.

The Long Tail of the Fight

Bipolar kicked in hard after that near-miss, back injuries later from the bike wreck that turned my life upside down (front fork bent like Pac-Man, helmet saved me but road rash on my face says otherwise). Eviction judgment, bankruptcy, 10 years homeless, housing lists that collect dust for 5+ years, system that forgets you exist until maybe a case manager finally acts like they give a shit.

Nights still feel like that ICU sometimes—heart racing from mania or stress, body screaming low power mode (like that Feb 13 post: energy fades fast, world gets too loud, you just survive). Wondering if this grind is the afterlife or just the extended cut of survival. But here's the punch: I didn't die. Not then, not yet.

Still breathing, still typing these words at 2-something AM on concrete or wherever tonight lands. Still dropping rants on dfwsas.blogspot.com, watching stocks, calling out the absurd (ICE agendas, Gates budgets, AI privacy creeps, Waffle House disregard). Still got ideas bouncing, art in the SAS Collection, that "last laugh" spark refusing to snuff.

Why This Matters

People may not know—or want to know—what it takes to come back from a body that tried to quit at 17. Serotonin syndrome episodes can hammer everything: autonomic chaos, seizures, tachycardia that should kill you, breathing that needs watching like a hawk. I made it through the spike. Through the after. Through the homelessness, the pain, the isolation. The fight isn't glamorous—it's waking up after nights where death hovered, managing the swings so you don't burn out completely, keeping the thoughts flowing even when everything else drains.

If anyone's reading this who gets even a piece of it: you're not alone in wondering "did I die?" We made it through the impossible. We keep making it through the daily. Still here. Still in the fight.

— Shane

Tags: survival, serotonin syndrome, bipolar, homelessness, mental health, still fighting