Javblanc
10th December 2022, 16:23
There was a time in my life when I experienced miracles.
I do not know if miracles are concentrated in certain periods of life. If so, they do it in tribulation periods judging from my personal experience. This “magical” period began when I was 22 years old, lasted approximately until I was 24, and coincided with the most difficult time of my life. By then my obsessive compulsive disorder had made my life unlivable. So much so that I decided to commit suicide. But then an advertisement in the newspaper caught my attention: a television channel was holding a contest to discover new talent in the field of creative writing. Writing was my great hobby. I had entered several literary competitions and had submitted scripts to film and television producers. Unsuccessfully. When I saw the ad I told myself that I had nothing to lose by trying one last time. Although my resolution to kill myself was not motivated by my frustration as a writer, I knew that winning the contest might be the wake-up call I needed to recover the desire to live. One night I asked God to help me: only winning that contest, I told Him, would make me give up my purpose. “If You help me, I will help others in return. I promise.”
The days that followed, I pulled myself together and threw myself into writing the pilot episode of the requested sitcom. I remember the sharp contrast between my state of mind and the dialogues and humorous situations that I was producing. I wrote like a man possessed, making up the story on the fly, as if from dictation. When months later it was announced that I was the winner, I attributed it to my pact with God and got ready to do my part. The prize money was considerable. I don't remember if it was the same day or within a few days after I had the money deposited in my bank account when, in a corridor of the subway on my way to the University (I was supposed to be studying Law), I was met by a woman accompanied by two teenagers loaded with suitcases. She asked me how to get to a certain campsite in Castelldefels. The woman seemed in such a state of nervousness that I offered to walk her to the bus station. On the way she told me her sad story: she had just arrived in Barcelona with her children fleeing from an abusive husband. They came from Jaén. It was winter and the few campsites located next to the beach that remained open had very affordable prices. The woman planned to stay there and look for work in Barcelona. In the following days I made sure that her story was true and, realizing that it was not a chance encounter, I asked her to open a bank account, where I transferred the prize money. Days before, my father had offered me to invest that money in the stock market. When he found out what I had done, he put me out on the street. Fortunately, I had started working as a scriptwriter at Televisión Española, which allowed me to rent a small apartment.
Months later, I was coming home from work; I was looking out the bus window, when I was suddenly hit by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, a déjà vu focused on a girl walking down the street. I later remembered that I had experienced the same mysterious sensation ten years before. That time the activator had been a friend of my sister whom I had only seen for a few moments. Could she be the same girl? I later found out that she was. (I will tell this story in another post.)
The money that monthly I had left over from my salary as a screenwriter was distributed among several NGOs that help children. I also won another literary contest around that time. I was on a roll. (I have to say that, outside of that interval of two years, I have never won a contest again.) In my free time I used to go to the Ciudadela Park to read. One day, while I was walking there, I thought that I would like to be able to help others in a more personal way than just donating money. Shortly after, I was reading while walking down the main avenue of the park when I heard muffled screams. A woman in a wheelchair parked in front of a church was gesturing me. I went over to her, but it was very difficult for me to understand her because she did not vocalize well. In the end I figured out what was happening to her: she was going to a funeral but the church was closed and no one was coming. I was surprised that, not being able to use her hands and hers being a manual chair, the woman was alone. I learned that she had been left there by an adapted taxi that was due to pick her up in three hours. I explained to her that this was a military church that was always closed and accompanied her around the neighborhood until we located the right church, but the funeral had long since concluded. Back at the park, while we were waiting for the taxi, she told me that her name was Rose and that she lived in a residence, of which she gave me the address. I promised I’d go see her. In the residence they needed people to walk the disabled and I volunteered. It has been 25 years since I first met Rose. Now I am one of the few people who can understand her at once when she speaks. Our meeting in the park was the latest in a series of curious coincidences that I dare to describe as "miraculous", concentrated in the space of two years, and which marked what I call the magical period of my life.
I do not know if miracles are concentrated in certain periods of life. If so, they do it in tribulation periods judging from my personal experience. This “magical” period began when I was 22 years old, lasted approximately until I was 24, and coincided with the most difficult time of my life. By then my obsessive compulsive disorder had made my life unlivable. So much so that I decided to commit suicide. But then an advertisement in the newspaper caught my attention: a television channel was holding a contest to discover new talent in the field of creative writing. Writing was my great hobby. I had entered several literary competitions and had submitted scripts to film and television producers. Unsuccessfully. When I saw the ad I told myself that I had nothing to lose by trying one last time. Although my resolution to kill myself was not motivated by my frustration as a writer, I knew that winning the contest might be the wake-up call I needed to recover the desire to live. One night I asked God to help me: only winning that contest, I told Him, would make me give up my purpose. “If You help me, I will help others in return. I promise.”
The days that followed, I pulled myself together and threw myself into writing the pilot episode of the requested sitcom. I remember the sharp contrast between my state of mind and the dialogues and humorous situations that I was producing. I wrote like a man possessed, making up the story on the fly, as if from dictation. When months later it was announced that I was the winner, I attributed it to my pact with God and got ready to do my part. The prize money was considerable. I don't remember if it was the same day or within a few days after I had the money deposited in my bank account when, in a corridor of the subway on my way to the University (I was supposed to be studying Law), I was met by a woman accompanied by two teenagers loaded with suitcases. She asked me how to get to a certain campsite in Castelldefels. The woman seemed in such a state of nervousness that I offered to walk her to the bus station. On the way she told me her sad story: she had just arrived in Barcelona with her children fleeing from an abusive husband. They came from Jaén. It was winter and the few campsites located next to the beach that remained open had very affordable prices. The woman planned to stay there and look for work in Barcelona. In the following days I made sure that her story was true and, realizing that it was not a chance encounter, I asked her to open a bank account, where I transferred the prize money. Days before, my father had offered me to invest that money in the stock market. When he found out what I had done, he put me out on the street. Fortunately, I had started working as a scriptwriter at Televisión Española, which allowed me to rent a small apartment.
Months later, I was coming home from work; I was looking out the bus window, when I was suddenly hit by an overwhelming sense of familiarity, a déjà vu focused on a girl walking down the street. I later remembered that I had experienced the same mysterious sensation ten years before. That time the activator had been a friend of my sister whom I had only seen for a few moments. Could she be the same girl? I later found out that she was. (I will tell this story in another post.)
The money that monthly I had left over from my salary as a screenwriter was distributed among several NGOs that help children. I also won another literary contest around that time. I was on a roll. (I have to say that, outside of that interval of two years, I have never won a contest again.) In my free time I used to go to the Ciudadela Park to read. One day, while I was walking there, I thought that I would like to be able to help others in a more personal way than just donating money. Shortly after, I was reading while walking down the main avenue of the park when I heard muffled screams. A woman in a wheelchair parked in front of a church was gesturing me. I went over to her, but it was very difficult for me to understand her because she did not vocalize well. In the end I figured out what was happening to her: she was going to a funeral but the church was closed and no one was coming. I was surprised that, not being able to use her hands and hers being a manual chair, the woman was alone. I learned that she had been left there by an adapted taxi that was due to pick her up in three hours. I explained to her that this was a military church that was always closed and accompanied her around the neighborhood until we located the right church, but the funeral had long since concluded. Back at the park, while we were waiting for the taxi, she told me that her name was Rose and that she lived in a residence, of which she gave me the address. I promised I’d go see her. In the residence they needed people to walk the disabled and I volunteered. It has been 25 years since I first met Rose. Now I am one of the few people who can understand her at once when she speaks. Our meeting in the park was the latest in a series of curious coincidences that I dare to describe as "miraculous", concentrated in the space of two years, and which marked what I call the magical period of my life.