The Moth Radio Hour: After the Fall
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From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jay Allison, producer of this show. In this episode, stories about healing, all the ways we manage to recover from the hard stuff. I should mention that because of the nature of this theme, many of the stories contain references to difficult subjects and traumatic events, so be cautioned.

Our first story, an intense one, as I mentioned, is told by Betsy Lamberson at a show in Jackson Hole, Wyoming that we produced in partnership with Center for the Arts. Here's Betsy live at the mall. In 2006, I was living my dream life in Cairo, Egypt with my husband, Tom. Tom was working as a teacher at a local school.

I was 24, I had just graduated with a degree in Middle East Studies and Arabic and I landed a job with a non-profit that I was deeply passionate about. And it was incredible. I spoke the language, I had this view of the pyramids from my office and I truly believed I was exactly where I wanted to be doing exactly what I wanted to be doing. In fact,

We were so happy there that we decided to stay as long as we could. And so I invited my dad and stepmom to come visit us from where they lived in Wyoming. Now, my parents aren't big world travelers, but they were willing to come visit us because they wanted to see what our life was like. So when they got to Egypt, we go straight to this little village in the Sinai Peninsula called Dahab. And one night we're walking around.

and we're just looking for a place to eat. And all of a sudden, we hear this boom behind us. And we look back, and there is what looks like a large firework fountain. And it actually takes a slight moment to realize, like, there's not supposed to be a firework there. And we're actually in danger. And at this moment, my dad looks at me, and he says...

oh shit here we go and we all take off running and away from it and we take one two maybe three steps and then that is when the real bomb goes off behind us and it is a sound louder than god it is so sharp and intense and the blast from it knocks me forward

And at this moment, time slows down to like microseconds for me. And I'm hyper aware of everything that's going on. There's this heat from the blast that warms my clothes. And I can actually hear like small bits of shrapnel whizzing by my ears in this hot wind. And then I can't hear anything. And I lift my head up.

And I can see people screaming and talking and I can't hear them. And then suddenly my hearing comes back. And I actually think like, oh my God, this is incredible. This is just like in the movies when they lose their hearing. And then I look and when I lift my arm, I have this tiny hole in my arm and there's this stream of blood coming out and I just fixate on it.

And I think, oh my God, like I just went through that. And there's this tiny hole in my arm. That's amazing. So I scan around to see where everyone is. And I don't see my stepmom. And later we found out that she had outran the blast. I don't see Tom. And I look behind me and I find my dad. And he's sitting there with his leg. And he says he's okay. But his leg is in really bad shape. And then he says...

Tom doesn't look so good and I follow his gaze over and lying there on the ground is my husband and he's so injured that I didn't even recognize him. And it's around this time that I start to get lightheaded and I look down to take more of it in and I realize

that I am sitting in a pool of my own blood and there's no way it all came from the tiny hole in my arm. We all survived and we went, we started this journey from being medevaced from the Sinai to Cairo, from Cairo to the military hospital in Germany.

And eventually, as we discovered what our wounds were and our medical needs were, we were brought to Denver, Colorado, because it was where there was hospitals that could take care of our needs, and it was closest to our hometown in Casper, Wyoming. And along the way, we discovered that three bombs had gone off that night. They were carried out by radical Bedouin Sinai's who were targeting the Egyptian regime.

24 people had died and over 80 people were injured. We were the only four Americans. And the thing about being injured is that there's no going back to a normal life. And in fact, the term injured can mean an entire range of hardship and ruin. My stepmom had small shrapnel wounds and some nerve damage.

My dad nearly lost his foot in the bombing and it took over almost two months to just stabilize his foot to a point where he could return home and continue his recovery. Tom was injured the worst of us. He was in ICU for a while and he had nearly lost his arm and the rest of his body was just like this mass of wounds.

And I personally had the back of my legs were just peppered with shrapnel. And there's these two chunks in my legs where there's just flesh and muscle that are missing. And we lovingly refer to them as shark bites. And so throughout all of this, I was dealing with it in my own special little way.

and that I was like obscenely positive and I wouldn't let any negativity in. So in the hospital I kept saying things like, "This is so incredible," and, "Oh my God, I'm so grateful, what a blessing." And so much so that I found out later the nurses had actually made notes in my medical charts, something to the effect of like, "Patient may not know she was in a bomb." Like, um...

But it was just like how I coped and got through it. So after three weeks in the hospital, I was wheeled out of the hospital directly to the hotel I would now be living in. And I had a pair of crutches and a carry-on suitcase. And the entire world that I had known and loved was lost. And in the hotel, that positivity...

started to wane as reality, the reality of our situation came like crashing down on me. And as I started to piece our life back together, this numbness kind of snuck in. And then I had one thing to kind of look forward to and that was our second wedding anniversary was coming up.

And I really wanted to make it special because the last year we were at the Ritz-Carlton and the Sinai snorkeling and it was incredible. And I also wanted to mark like everything we had been through. So given the situation, it was going to just be, you know, flowers and gifts and some nice food to share with my husband in his hospital room.

So I set out one day, I set out like mid-afternoon and I know there's some shops nearby and I'm going to go get these things. And I'm on foot because I don't have a car and I get to the shops and they're closed. And I think like, okay, well, what do I know is nearby? And I'm like, oh, there's like a Whole Foods. And like Whole Foods are magical. They have everything and it's all beautiful. And it was like perfect.

And it was a ways away, but I was feeling really strong even though I hadn't been walking very long. And I was like, yeah, I'll do it. And it was a hot day. And by the time I got there, I had walked probably over two miles. So I was super exhausted. And I get to Whole Foods and I realize like, oh, yeah, Whole Foods is just a grocery store. And like the food doesn't even look good. Like the flowers aren't exotic or special at all.

And I grab a bouquet and I decide, like, forget it. I'm just going to order pizza. That'll be special enough. It's not hospital food. It'll work. And then I go to the gift aisle, right? And I'm like...

There's like yoga socks and like chakra candles. And I'm like, oh, and I find this picture frame and it's, it's fair trade and it's made of leaves. And I'm like, great, that's going to work perfect. So I, I get the picture frame and the bouquet and I call a cab to take me back because I'm too tired. And as I'm sitting there, I'm like taking in my surroundings of this new city that I'm living in. And I'm in a kind of a she, she area, like

I notice there's this girl who's just having this great Cherry Creek afternoon. She's eating sushi and talking to her friend and her life looks incredible to me. And while I'm sitting there, I hear this and this is where I should note that our anniversary was also the 4th of July. And even though it's the middle of the day, catty corner from the Whole Foods is the Denver Country Club.

and they have just launched a single firework. And I take a deep breath and brace myself, and I watch as this firework comes up directly over the parking lot and it goes off, and every cell in my body is screaming at me that horrible things happen after that sound, and I break down.

And the girl who had been on the phone with her friend sees me crying, and she says, I got to go. There's this girl crying hysterically. And she comes over and asks if I'm okay, and through the tears I tell her, like, I'm okay. It's just there's this thing, and it didn't mean anything to anybody, but I was just in a bombing, and I'm freaking out right now. And she's like, oh, my gosh, how can I help you? And she offers me a ride.

And I take it because I couldn't stand waiting for the cab. And when we're in the car, I'm, you know, she asks me questions and I'm talking to her and it's kind of helping to calm me down. And I'm telling her everything. And I'm like, I, you know, I lived in Egypt and my parents came to visit and they were also injured. And she's just like,

oh my god, and I'm like, and my husband almost lost his arm, and he's in the hospital, and she's like, oh my god, and I was like, and I live in a hotel, and she's like, oh my god, and it was like, and it's my wedding anniversary, and she's just like, oh my god, like, and it's a whole ride is like that, and we get to the hotel, and she pulls up as close as she can, because I don't want to be outside, and I

Thank her profusely and I go inside and all the fear and the terror and everything I never felt the night of the bombing just floods my system. And I allow it because I know that I have to feel it if I want to heal. Thank you. That was Betsy Landerson.

At the time of this recording, it's been 16 years since the bombing. Betsy still lives in Denver and was the regional producer of The Moth's local story slam. You can still find her there on the third Friday of the month in the audience. She works now as a parenting educator, helping families learn about the science behind parenting, stress management, and self-regulation. You can find out more about Betsy's work at themoth.org.

After two years of survival mode and intense recovery, Tom and Betsy divorced. Betsy said that bombs are pretty hard on a marriage. Tom went back to his passion of teaching overseas. He currently lives in Hong Kong. They remain friends.

Betsy's parents, Bruce and Cindy, were able to return to their active life in the mountains of Wyoming. After her father's limb restoration and recovery, they went on to complete a 50K trail race, the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim, and to Betsy's relief, have even added a few more stamps to their passports. Betsy slowly worked through her healing, found her community, and is now a single mom to a five-year-old son.

Betsy did get the number of the stranger who drove her to safety, but was too overwhelmed and embarrassed to reach out again, and the number has long been lost. So, Katie, if you are out there, Betsy would love to hear from you. In a moment, stories of the places where we find comfort, from a house of worship to a lingerie store. That's next on the Moth Radio Hour. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. Our next story in this show about healing comes from Sam Blackman. Sam told us at a Grand Slam we produced in Seattle in partnership with public radio station KUOW. From Town Hall, here's Sam. Wow. A 70-year-old Jew...

trapped in the body of a 10-year-old boy. That's what my parents would say about me. And it was because on Saturday afternoons, I would walk by myself to our temple for mincha and mariv, the evening worship. It was because when grown-ups would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said I wanted to be a doctor and a rabbi and a mohel, all three. And if you don't know what a mohel is, it's the ritual Jewish circumciser. My parents had no explanation for that.

And they were high holiday Jews, so they were confused by the depth and profundity of my devotion. And it was there because I really, I truly believed in God. I felt God. When I was a little boy, I would close my eyes and I would visualize God. And you know what I saw? I saw the Jolly Green Giant from the 70s vegetable commercials.

And don't laugh because this was important to me that I felt protected. I felt sheltered. This was 1980, the Iran hostage crisis and the Cold War and Ronald Reagan was coming. So a jolly green Jewish God worked for me. But more than that, I loved being Jewish. I loved Judaism. I would go to temple on a Friday night and I would sit in the front row and I would sing my heart out. And afterwards, I'd run up to my rabbi like a groupie at a concert.

And I would go to my regular grade school and then afterwards I'd go to Hebrew school and then after that I'd go to extra bar mitzvah classes. And my bar mitzvah when I turned 13 was the high point of my young life because now I could be part of a minion and a minion is this ten-man quorum that you need to conduct prayer services. And so I had God, but more importantly, I belonged. I belonged to something that was bigger than me, that was important to me. And for a weird, nerdy kid from New Jersey,

This is a big deal. But when I was 15, my rabbi was fired for contractual reasons. And I was devastated because I loved Rabbi Kimmelman. He was short and bald and wise and he had this singing voice that soared to the heavens. And when we would talk, he would look me in the eyes and hold my hand and he would let me ask an infinite number of questions. He was so patient with me because that's what you do when you're a good Jew. You keep asking questions.

And now he's gone because of money. And this new rabbi, Rabbi Rogoff, he was different. He was tall and aloof and he'd talk to me but he'd cross his arms and he'd loom over me but I could see him scanning above my head for somebody else to talk to. He redecorated the synagogue in mid-1980s pastels and mauve. He hired a cantor. He outsourced the singing. Now, not long after that, my parents' marriage erupted

in a conflagration of mutual infidelity, and both of them sought counsel from Rabbi Rogoff. My father, the doctor, the one who paid the Hebrew school tuition and made the annual contributions to the temple, he got the rabbi's counsel and wisdom, but my mother, the college dropout who had an affair with the plumber, was told she needed psychiatric care. And then one day, I'm 16, and I'm sitting in the back row of a temple that's now unrecognizable to me with my father and his girlfriend.

And for the first time I noticed that in the middle of services people will waltz in through the back and adults will turn and look and whisper, "Who's there? Who are they with? What are they wearing?" And I become aware that this is a performance, that the people here are acting Jewish. They know the lines, they're wearing costumes, they got the musical numbers down. But my teenage brain is saying, "This is a show."

And then suddenly inside I'm falling and I've got nothing solid to grab onto. Rabbi Kimmelman? Fired. My parents' marriage? Shattered. My temple? Mauve. And everything that I reach to touch is plastic and I turn inside and I look for God but my 16-year-old Jewish brain knows that the Jolly Green Giant is just a logo on the side of a can of watery green beans.

And this despair surges in me and I start to cry and I shoot up to my feet and my father growls at me, "Sit down!" But I don't sit down. I run. I run out of the back of the temple and I run out of the back of the building. I'm like Benjamin Braddock running in The Graduate and I run and I run and I don't look back. And in that moment I break. I break with God and I break with Judaism. And I pave over the ruins with three decades of science and medicine

And in 35 years, I never set foot in a temple until three weeks ago when my oldest friend, Adam, invites my wife and daughter and I to come to San Francisco for his daughter's bat mitzvah. And you go because that's what you do when a friend you've known since 10 calls you. And for the first time in 35 years, I put on a talus, the Jewish prayer shawl, and I put on a yarmulke. And as the rabbi chants the prayers, the elenu, the shema, the kaddish,

The words and the melodies come flooding back to me and just for a moment I am that 12 year old boy again and it's all still there inside me. And when they parade the Torah around, I remember that you take the corner of your talus and you touch the Torah, you don't touch it with your hand and then you kiss that part of the talus. And when my daughter gets restless during the services, I say to her, "Here you can braid the fringes of the talus," which is what my father said to me when I was her age.

It was like seeing that first person who broke your heart 35 years later and you go, "Now, now I remember why I fell in love with you." And I felt that belonging and I thought to myself, "What would have happened?" After the service, our daughter, who was raised with no religion, comes up to my wife and I, she goes, "Daddy, I want to go to Hebrew school and be bat mitzvahed. Is this God?" Because if it is, he's got a hell of a sense of humor. "I don't know. But what about Judaism?"

I mean, is this a first date? Are we going to start seeing each other again? I don't know, but maybe, I think, maybe we can still be friends. Thank you very much.

That was Sam Blackman. Sam is a pediatric oncologist, cancer drug developer, and chief medical officer at Day One Biopharmaceuticals. In addition, he's an avid writer, storyteller, and baker of fine sourdough breads. He lives on Orcas Island in Washington with his wife, Julie, daughter, Annika, and a menagerie of pets. To see photos of Sam at his bar mitzvah, go to our website, themoth.org. ♪

Next up, another Seattle slammer. Paige Cornwell told this story at an open mic event at the Fremont Abbey Arts Center. Here's Paige. I just realized I'm wearing my work badge. That's so embarrassing. Okay. Woo!

So I am driving back to my childhood home in Leawood, Kansas from the hospital where my mom is in the ICU. It's been another really long day of doctors telling me that my mom's case is really interesting and unique and disturbing and other terrible adjectives. And they tell me we're not sure if she's ever going to walk or talk again.

So I'm driving around and I want to get my mind off of all this. I'm 26. I just became my mom's guardian and conservator. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. It's like a Tuesday in Leawood, Kansas. Great place. I would suggest you all go there. So I look around at the strip mall and I see it in pink letters. Victoria's Secret. And I'm thinking, yes, perfect.

So I walk in, I'm wearing a black turtleneck, which doesn't fit in at all, and nothing like anything I've experienced for three months. Instead of stale hospital food, it smells like innocents and angels. And instead of medical scrubs, there's garters and brassieres and panties that say lit on the butt.

So I'm like looking around and just it's helping. And this woman comes up to me. It's a woman who works there. She's all sparkly and tits for days. And her name is Tiffany. And this bitch will not leave me alone. I just want to, you know, buy some sensible black underwear, feel normal again. But she's showing me things with like tassels and furry things. And I'm like, girl, leave me alone. And so she finally pulls up this

It looks like three pieces of yellow floss tied together. They called it a thong, a cheeky thong, which doesn't make sense, but whatever. And she says, ooh, this would be very good for sexy time, don't you think? So I say, Tiffany, I do not have time for sexy time. My mother is dying. And I stop myself because it's the first time I've actually said that out loud. My mother is dying. And her face falls, and she says, honey, come here. And she takes me in her enormous bosom.

And I'm crying because I want my mom, and I'm also in the bosom of a woman in Leawood, Kansas, and this is not how I thought my life would be. And I finally emerge out, and she says to me, "Honey, your life may be out of control, but one thing you can control is your bra." And this situation right here, your mom would not like. You need a different cup.

And I look at her and I just start laughing because I realize this is something really small I can control and maybe that'll morph into bigger things I can control. Maybe we'll all be okay after this.

And so she takes me around and I buy a whole bunch of things that I've never worn. There's like lace and satin and tassels and weird stuff. And so she's ringing me up and I spent like $100 and I also got an angels card. Yay! And I haven't used it since, but I think they're having a sale. And she says to me, now honey, you are a strong woman. I can tell by your boobs. Those are the boobs of a strong woman. You will get through this.

And also, I put in that sexy yellow number in your bag just in case you have time. Thank you. Paige Cornwell. She grew up in Kansas City and is now a reporter for the Seattle Times in Washington. In 2015, she was part of the Seattle Times team that won a Pulitzer Prize for breaking news. Paige's mom recovered after a months-long hospital stay and now lives independently.

Paige tells us that things are still difficult, but we'll be okay. And if she needs a reminder, all she needs to do is look in her underwear drawer.

This next story comes from another Story Slam, but this time from halfway around the world. Amarantha Robinson told this at an open mic Story Slam competition in Sydney, Australia, where we partnered with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, ABC-RN. But note that there is reference to sexual violence in the story. Here's Amarantha live at the mall. I've traveled to over 45 countries.

I slept in an igloo I built with my own hands, snow camping in British Columbia, Canada. I jumped out of a perfectly good plane in Argentina and I got my first tattoo in a dirty little shop in Cusco, Peru. I'm a badass. But one day I stood on a street in my own neighborhood, a street I knew so well and I was shaking.

I was about to walk into my local police station and report the most personal of crimes. I knew the only way I could get through this was just to think of it as another one of my escapades. So, as I walked into the police station, there were three police officers behind the counter. I was relieved when the one who came towards me was a woman. As I walked up to the glass partition, I kept telling myself,

This completely fits the description of what you know an adventure to be. The fear of the unknown, the spike of adrenaline, the pounding of my heart in my chest. I've got this. As I walked up to meet her, I leaned in, desperate not to be overheard, and whispered, "I would like to report a sexual assault." She nodded and quietly asked me to follow her into an interview room just to the side.

It was small and dark. There was a large heavy desk, a computer, and three chairs. "Tell me what happened," she said. "It was someone I knew, a man I was dating at the time. What happened, I... I did not give my consent." She took notes and then left the room. I squirmed in that hard office chair, wringing my hands together nervously. She came back in to tell me that two detectives were on their way down.

She would start taking my official statement and then the detectives would complete it when they arrived. So I explained to her how it is that I came to know this man. It was in the traditional way, the way you would hope to tell your parents at a party. I softened a little bit as I recounted how wonderful our first two dates were.

He took me to my favorite restaurant. We had the most romantic dinner. And the second date, he packed a beautiful picnic for me in a park. There was a knock on the door. Two burly male detectives walked in and introduced themselves. I wasn't sure if I was able to tell a man my story, but it was too late now. One with dark hair sat across from me and explained that he would be taking over from the female police officer.

who was leaving the room. It was in that moment that I understood why only 5% of cases of sexual assault are actually reported. It's too hard, it's too painful, too awkward to retell it all, to relive it in excruciating detail, to tell it to a man in a small, dark room. "What happened next?" he said, as gently as he could. I closed my eyes.

and I pretended for a moment that I was standing at the edge of a bungee jumping platform, just as I had done in New Zealand a few years before all this. I had looked down into the ravine then, with my familiar mix of courage and sheer force of will. I had stepped and felt myself fall. It was our third date. He had invited me over for lunch at his place.

I had no reason to be wary. He seemed mature and sensitive, and I had already explained to him that I wasn't ready to be intimate. Now, as the words came out of my mouth, I was bothered by my own self-doubt because this story, my story, probably didn't sound anything like what this detective was expecting to hear. I wasn't walking down a dark alleyway alone at night, pounced upon by a stranger with a knife.

This was someone I knew, someone I liked, someone I was hoping to be able to tell my parents about. But he was also someone who sought the thrill of taking a risk, which we all do. I mean, that is why, that's why we pursue and love adventures. But this pursuit comes from a peculiar sense of entitlement, where someone prioritizes their own pleasure over another person's basic well-being.

As I told the detective about the moment it happened, I felt a surge of anger rise inside me, as well as a fierce resolve. If that had been his idea of an adventure, pressing charges would be mine. APPLAUSE

That was Amarantha Robinson. Amarantha is a writer, artist, and performer from Kingston, Jamaica, who lives in Melbourne, Australia. In keeping with our theme, she said that telling her experiences is how she turns darkness into beauty and lets others know they are not alone. In a moment, our final two stories of healing when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. This next story comes from Esther Mesa. Esther told this story at our Moth Education Showcase. The Moth Education Program works with students and teachers alike to develop their stories, build community, and use storytelling as an educational resource. From the Bell House in Brooklyn, Esther Mesa. As a kid, I was very carefree.

I didn't care what anyone thought, I would do anything that made me smile no matter what. But out of all my numerous unique traits, and trust me, I had a lot, there was one in particular that stood out. When I was a kid, I would always play these games. And when I say games, I don't mean tic-tac-toe or I Spy like every other kid at that age was playing. These games were my own personal games for me and me only. Like if I walked in a room, I could only leave if I left the way I came in.

Or if I spun in a circle, I had to spin back around. And these games were so simple, but it satisfied this urge I couldn't quite put into words. Like I'd be in my fifth grade dance class, and after everybody would do the spin choreography, I'd still be in the back trying to sneakily spin back around without getting scolded and labeled a delinquent in front of my entire class. It was like Simon Says. Well, if Simon Says was only played by one person, but still.

Simon would follow me around during the day, giving me gentle nudges whenever he felt in the mood to play. And I never thought he was inconvenient. I was always able to brush his urges to the side if I really need to. Like, Simon says, touch your nose. Simon says, raise your hand. Simon says, you did that terribly and you have to do it again until you get it right. This was something that I grew up with. So I never, I just, it was so normalized in my eyes and I never saw any reason for me to scrutinize over it.

Things started to change as I got older, though. And I know that seventh grade is just a year that people universally never want to think about ever again, but my seventh grade was especially significant. And I mean, Simon went crazy. He decided he was sick of these dumb children games, grabbed me by the collar and said, let's play. These urges that were once so menial were now becoming restrictions inhibiting my everyday life.

My once perfect transcript in attendance was completely and utterly shattered, barely being able to get out my door without some new rule being added. Out of the 180-day school year, 52 times I chose Simon over my own education. I knew that the words Simon was spewing at me were empty threats and nonsense, but that didn't take away from the fear and the fact that I had to listen to him. And in the end, it even got to a point where I wouldn't leave my room because I didn't want to play the game anymore.

Obviously, my parents started taking notice that their once very peppy and honestly overly energetic child was now quite the opposite and decided it was time to get me professionally evaluated. I was brought to this building across town, and I walked into this waiting room. The walls were white, and the ceiling was white, and the chairs were white, and the carpet was definitely white at some point. Honestly, I don't want to know what happened to it.

And in my head, I immediately started comparing it to what I thought isolation rooms looked like in mental hospitals. And despite it all, this is when the real panic started to set in. Why would my parents bring me here? Do they think I'm crazy? And maybe I actually am, because honestly, I don't have any other explanation. And while I was sitting in that chair, I just wanted to go home. I didn't want answers, I didn't want to know, and I didn't want to be sick. And when I was finally called into that room,

I was like 90% sure I was about to be shoved into a straitjacket, but instead, I was greeted with this lady who started asking me questions you don't normally ask someone within the first eight minutes of meeting them, like, "Hi, how are you? Do you ever have thoughts of inflicting bodily harm to yourself or others? Let's just slow down for a second." And after waves and waves of uncomfortable questions that I'd rather not get into,

And like 30 minutes of waiting, I was called back into the room, sits down, she looks me in my eyes and she says, "You have obsessive-compulsive disorder, also known as OCD." My room is the messiest thing I've ever seen. I have papers everywhere, I have clothes everywhere. I don't even know where my homework is tonight. You're either a fraud or you pass with like low C's. Because I'm the most disorganized person I know.

The next 20 minutes were then getting spent that OCDs actually consist of two components. There's intrusive thoughts and then compulsions which follow, which is anything to make that thought or feeling go away. When my initial stubbornness wore off, there was a sense of relief through me. If this was something identifiable, then this meant that there had to be others out there, and this meant that I could be fixed. But that small sense of relief was very short-lived and very broken by none other than the Internet.

Once I started going on every website and sketchy forum that I could find looking up symptoms, and throughout all that, I could not find ones that exactly pinpointed what I experienced. So at this point, I was like, okay, this has to be some bullshit because how am I not even normal within this category of not being normal?

And I carried that thought and a whole bundle of shame with me everywhere I went. I didn't want to tell anyone or get the help that I needed because I just wanted to pretend it didn't exist. But in the end, I only succeeded in shutting out my friends and my grades were slipping. A few months after my official diagnosis, I was walking to school with a group of my friends and this girl who was new to my school. I only knew her in some of my classes and I didn't have any more than like surface level conversation with her. So I didn't really know her that well.

But I was like dozing off in my head rather than engaging in whatever seventh graders talk about at 8 a.m. when I suddenly snapped back to reality when I heard someone say the word OCD. I was so startled I initially thought people found out my deep, dark, and terrible secret that I instinctively asked, "Why are you talking about OCD?" in a much harsher tone than I intended.

But before any of the girls had time to figure out whether or not I was being offensive, the new girl stepped in and she told me that she had exposure therapy later for her OCD. That was a big moment for me. The rest of that day consisted of a lot of self-control, trying to contain myself from running up and shaking her and being, me too, me too, I had that too. But instead, I had to wait very patiently throughout my day, which I am not patient. Okay, you have to understand that.

And when the final bell rang and school was over, I was able to pull her to the side and have her be the first person I ever willingly told about my diagnosis. We were able to open up and rely on each other, and even though her OCD was very different from mine, just knowing that we weren't alone meant so much, because reading a statistic online is so different from experiencing it.

She helped me feel comfortable accepting the things that I couldn't control, and she pushed me to get the help that I needed. Even though it was a really long process, now I'm even at a point where I can think back and smile. And the truth of the whole matter is that there isn't a way to beat the game. You just have to accept the fact that if you and Simon are going to be spending this much time together, you have to learn how to get along. Thank you. Thank you.

That was Esther Mesa. At the time of this recording, Esther is starting her senior year of high school. She tells us that she's currently learning to play guitar and has a cat named Oysters. ♪

Our final story in this hour about trauma and healing comes from Bill Hall and a note that it is intense and emotional. He told this at our first ever Nashville Grand Slam where we partnered with public radio station WPLN. Here's Bill Hall live from Oz Arts. We were in our third year of frequent visits to a pediatric cancer center. We were dealing with the reality of

that we were going to outlive one of our children. As time grew short, we lay in bed with her, my wife on one side, me on the other, and we held her between us until she slipped away. She was just short of her third birthday. When you die in a hospital, they don't just wheel you out. They have a gurney, and it has a false bottom in it, and they hide the body in there. Couldn't do that.

We had never hit her from the world, and we weren't going to start now. I told them I'll carry her through the hospital to the hearse. They said, we don't do that sort of thing here. And I said, I don't give a damn what you do. You're doing it today. They wrapped her in a blanket, and I picked her up. My wife clung to my arm tighter than she ever had before or since. We leaned on each other, and together...

We carried our daughter through the hospital, kissed her goodbye for the last time, and they put her in the hearse. Then we leaned on each other and walked back through the hospital. To this day, I don't know who was holding up who. When a couple goes through something like this, no one remains unchanged. One of two things happen. It destroys them or it makes them indestructible. Very early on in our years together,

We were cast into the fire, but we did not burn. Though we didn't know it at the time, we were made of stronger stuff. The fire tempered us and eventually forged us into one. I've learned many things from my wife through the years. I will never be as good a person, but by her example, I've learned to be a better person. But there was one lesson we learned together a terrible day so long ago.

when we're beaten, when we're broken, when we can no longer stand on our own. If we lean on each other, neither one of us will fall. That was Bill Hall.

Bill is a construction project manager at Tennessee Tech University. He and his wife Lori have been exploring life and the world together for over 35 years, and Bill says he adores her. To see photos of Bill, Lori, and their daughter, visit our website, themoth.org. ♪

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the Moth. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Catherine Burns, and Meg Bowles.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Maggie Sino with additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson and Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Jeunesse, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza.

The Moth Education Program is made possible by generous support from the Kate Spade New York Foundation, Alice Gottesman, the Paul and Phyllis Fireman Charitable Foundation, Bloomberg Philanthropies, the New York State Council on the Arts, Con Edison, and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.

Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Brad Meldow, Croca, John Schofield, Wolf Peck, and Todd Sykafous. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.