Ashley Stinnett | When you monk too hard and think you’re having a heart attack

Just Monking Around | Confessions, Concessions and Repentance

By Ashley Stinnett 10/23/16 10:08pm

Communications are limited in the monk class now: 100 spoken words per day, no social media, no contact beyond what is necessary for school or employment.

It started out innocuously. Lots of note writing, LOTS of over-emoting so I could have some semblance of a conversation. Emails to my employers included small talk asking about their weekend — ostensibly necessary, but a little too much. Participation emails to my Wasting Time on the Internet course became me completely monopolizing the class listserv. Still, I wasn’t breaking any rules — at least, not then.

Whelp. “The shit hath hittith the fan ... ith.” I am sure this surprises no one. I broke — hard. Really, really hard. I was a terrible, terrible monk for several days.

A professor in a large class once said: Someone will likely have a grandparent die while taking this course. It will hurt, you will mourn, but you will also know that everyone will come to experience this.

But what about when your best friend almost dies. Or even ... you?

I started exploiting ambiguities in the class syllabus when one of my roommates was hospitalized.

I decided I’d break my communications vow, but only for him. Lord knows this University isn’t so accommodating when taking time off. I made it my job to assist my roommate in any way I could. I wasn’t going to make my friend accommodate my restrictions when his life was in danger.

Well, speaking to my sick friend could be my requisite “act of kindness” for the day. Next time, I’ll just send him a nice, handwritten letter. And send one to his parents, too. They’ll really appreciate a different kind of support.

It’s a slippery slope. I managed to contain my transgressions to my roommate. But, when the life in danger becomes your own, anything holding you back turns into a wisp of air.

I woke up with chest pains one morning and ignored them — a kink in my neck, pain just happened to radiate down only my left side. No biggie!

My other roommate commented that I was breathing really heavily a few days later. I mentioned my chest had been hurting for a while. She flipped out, the thought of two roommates seriously ill doubtless on her mind. She insisted I go to SHS right there and then.

They couldn’t rule out a heart attack. On to specialists and a battery of tests. I definitely used more than 100 words to sweet-talk my way into a same-day cardiology appointment, rather than waiting until Nov. 6 for the soonest one (you go, American health care system!).

There’s toeing the line, and there’s completely obliterating it. Scheduling Facebook posts for the entirety of my offline period so my Klout Score would increase and my start-up job boss wouldn’t fire me for being a terrible brand ambassador? The app is called Lit: Find Your People. How could I help people find people when they can’t even find me?! Questionable, but not technically violating anything.

Saying fuck it to everything when, in my heart of hearts (heh, see what I did there?) I knew I’d be okay? Totally, totally unethical. And shitty.

You probably saw me at Mad Mex and Tap House and the Manor and Camelot being the bubbliest I’ve ever been, talking a-mile-a-minute. You were probably on the receiving end of long email chains, or messages saying how thankful I was to have you in my life. Heck, I contacted high school teachers I hadn’t spoken to in years to offer to replenish a scholarship fund. Because, like, I totally thought I’d die without having the time to draw up a will!

I sound so benevolent. But trust me, I was BAD! I confessed to my monk class; I would repent in any way I could. There comes a time to prioritize yourself, but there also comes a time to step back and realize when you are going too far. When I continued to speak for a few days despite my blood tests coming back relatively normal, that was going too far. When I spent an hour talking to my boss about Tweets and Post Aesthetics, that was going too far. When I doubled back and established a “speaking-only-in-my-dorm” rule, even that was going too far. Even if I still wouldn’t be getting my EKG for another week and a half.

A fear of death was not driving my actions then. I was intentionally flouting the precepts I had taken.

How do you move on from this? I think that my coke-lord, European one-night stand said the most profound thing to me — in very sexily-accented English — when I was nursing my first, very nasty, comedown. “You just have to accept that you are going to feel bad. Let yourself feel as bad as you need to feel. Then you can live on.”