Authors: Ellison Blackburn
Regeneration X (35 page)
I remember thinking before CR, I missed the relationships I’d had. I dreamt I could restore my old self, and this would restore if not those exact relationships, then those
kinds
of relationships. And while I’ve made many new friends, those relationships I missed from my true youth stayed missing. There is no truly going back. Everything else had moved forward although, superficially I had moved back. You see the dynamics of relationships change over time. The social interactions of my youth in the 1980s and ‘90s were different. Cell phones were big clunky things, and one in a thousand people owned one; no social media or video capabilities on devices existed. Relationships were established by physical presence, not virtual personas and environments. I’m telling you this so you need not experience the same disappoints in this regard.
The flip side of the coin is it is not enough only to realize everything has changed from how it was in your first youth. You cannot
restore
your first youth self either. This is quite impossible to foresee—when you regenerate, your personality, with all its little, as well as big habits and emotions, has already been permanently altered by your previous experiences. For example, my first sexual encounter was when I was 21 years old. By the time I had reached 54, which is when I underwent Renovation, I had already had sex many times and with various partners. Thus, when I became 17 again, I was not going to be able to experience sex for the
first
time. For all things, there is no second
first
time.
I was essentially carrying the baggage of all of my experiences with me all the time. Granted, there are certain advantages to this. In other words, some of the items in my luggage were essential and still other pieces I wanted to keep just because I adored them. However, some of the unmentionables, items best thrown out, would remain no matter where I traveled. I could add to the contents of my baggage, but I was never going to be able to replace an existing item with another.
Of course, I hurt when situations, people, or relationships didn’t meet my expectations, but not nearly in the same way as my virgin-self did. For example, the very first time I had truly been disappointed in love. Imagine this. You can never experience, feel or think in innocence because you are not innocent or ignorant after having experienced anything once. Therefore, most things change and only a few remain. In my first youth I was neither popular nor unpopular; so on and so forth as I’ve already said, I was ordinary. Despite my second chances at everything, I am the same; no more extraordinary. When offered a sip from the fountain of youth, remember that it will not change your destiny. Every single living thing is fated to fulfill a role.
I don’t mean to scare you away from having the procedure done. I was unarmed. I hope you will be more prepared. Having already answered the question, “Was it worth it?” doesn’t close the discussion for questions. While I cannot fathom what you might ask that hasn’t already been answered in my story, I will leave you with the answer to, “Am I happy?”
I will gladly expand, since I still believe
happiness
to be relative to any given moment in the stretch of a lifetime. However to say it succinctly, “Even though there have been bumps and spikes in my road along the way, I am happy now.” I’m not done yet—
this
to me is my telltale sign. There were large spans in my previous life when I asked myself, “Why do I exist?” I cannot say I have the answer to this; however, I have the gumption to find out.
When the Cellular Renovation Council and the Aesthetic Renovation people approached me to write a memoir of sorts, it was not a marketing ploy to sell a product or service. They asked for my truth. And since they seemed to value this input, I hope to promote, through this very personal account, the necessity for post-CR therapy. Plainly put, cellular regeneration is a serious undertaking; it is
not
just a cosmetic procedure, especially if you decided to re-age.
If you are reading this because you are still considering it, ask yourself first if your life could change some other way. There are thousands of people out there who stuck with their lives as they were the first time around. Perhaps these people had an epiphany, and from this point forward decided to make concerted efforts to change the direction of the life they had thus far led. Before my own Renovation, I heard stories of men and women in various fields of work or life-stages, be it the middle-aged or the old, who dropped everything to pursue a dream or check things off a bucket list. Is this you? Whatever you decide, look deep before leaping.
In case I haven’t mentioned it or this part has been overlooked in your understanding, do the math. If you are like me, in your 50s or 60s, regenerating to your teens, then be very certain you are prepared. Conclude your dream life before you even reach senior hood. For me, I don’t feel any different for having taken a shortcut even if my overall path to contentedness has been longer. Over the past two years, I’ve thought repeatedly, what if? I have a feeling that no matter what, I would have ended up in the same place. The same place, and over before my potential of 63 years old because, remember, life expectancy is a
total
of 100 years—that is, if nothing goes awry.
・ ・ ・
Maybe your life is more or less complicated than mine, or your emotional state more or less stable at the time you’re considering CR. In any case, I hope my accounts have helped or, will help. Either you’re reading this prior to making your decision or because of the chaos, your life is in after CR. Please find a good therapist and a good friend. I don’t know what I would have done without either.
Know that eventually, this too shall pass.
・ ・ ・
If you’ve never heard of Tim Capello and his ingenious, divinely inspired song, I Still Believe, listen and all will become clear.
Thank You!
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Regeneration X
.
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Titles by Ellison Blackburn
Regeneration Chronicles
The story of regeneration continues.
Turn the page for a Sneak Peek.
The books in the Regeneration Chronicles also have paperback editions.
Ask for them in your local bookstore or library, or
purchase online
.
The Watchers
Coming soon:
A Sneak Peek: Progeny
OBLIVIOUS OF THE GOOSEFLESH PRICKLING against the inner lining of my jacket sleeves or the ache in my shoulders from holding my body tense against the frigid air, I am here again. Lonesome in Serenity Park—an advertisement might read, for a person seeking companionship—if the fact that the green space thus named is a cemetery is left out.
Yet, standing before the life-sized monument of a woman reclined against the high back of an otherwise plainly adorned throne, I require no company but hers and find with her the peace to grieve a loss I wasn’t aware I harbored so deeply, above all, until recently. Considering the past is otherwise my professional forte my visits here are entirely selfish. Perhaps fifty or so years too late, a little more of my accidentally-found, personal history makes sense.
The foliage beyond trembles, every now and then, swaying dramatically in the breeze, casting dappled shadows and animating the figure like an old stop motion picture. Watching closely where a sliver of sunlight illuminates her brow, as I muddle through another disjointed story of my life so far, I envision twitches of life emanating from the stone itself. My avid listener does not interrupt and illogically hopeful as I am, I stop mid-monologue to stare back, waiting and allowing for her chiseled lips to move. She remains paused—still speaking volumes by her visage alone.
Majestic and at the same time ethereal, the sentinel wears a gauzy shroud, which elegiacally cascades over her form. The hem terminates past her feet, puddling onto faux steps. Although not glamorous neither is she understated, especially as she, her lofty seat and its tiered platform are furthermore perched atop a massive limestone pedestal. Tracing an invisible line from the very bottom of the tomb’s base to the crown of her head, I estimate the complete structure towers at nearly ten feet tall—an imposing tribute for the grave lying beneath.
Her flowing hair and drapery are as smooth as a time worn river rock might be. However, having studied every line I know a master craftsman, rather than the hands of time, softened those edges. (It would have taken more than the 68 years that she’s been here for nature to burnish the stone with such artistry. Besides, Mother Nature’s strokes would not have been as conveniently placed.) The fine details around her eyes and mouth are as clear and crisp as the morning.
Nature has clothed the maiden in a patina of streaks and patches, in various shades of green and gray, however. Some faint striations run down her face, giving the impression she’s been crying for an eternity. And with the bodice of her dress plastered to her frame she is transformed into a forlorn soul, having emerged from some watery abyss—a risen Ophelia. Her head tilts a smidgeon back and to the side, as her hooded eyes ponder the future … or a long lost past. On a rainy day, weeping a constant trickle down those etched tracks, her image can inspire a melancholic interpretation. I can bear testimony to that.
There are a few residual florets on her shoulders and face, where lichen must have been once—of a pastel mint color, outlined in white. One such adornment lies delicately on her cheek, as though a pale butterfly initially landed here for a short respite, only to stay for longer rest. Having lingered there, the creature had become a part of her—embedded just under a thin filmy layer of nature’s skin.
Do not say there is something wrong with me for longing to be a butterfly, for today, now, she is superficially ingrained in me, as I have still to learn the whole story.
・ ・ ・
Cemeteries are portentous places for some, perhaps even frighteningly so. I’d never thought about it, likely because up until three months ago I hadn’t visited one regularly and before that only during funerals with at least a few other people present. However, by experience I can now relate to that definite jittery feeling a place such as this can inspire, particularly when alone. That deep, clawing emotion once realized can leave a lasting impression, one not easily forgotten or ignored if unintentionally recalled.
In the early hours of the morning, I find the cemetery comforting, despite now being fully aware of the concentrated presence of death, and the underlying creepy qualities of perpetual decay. If I am successful in pushing away even the shallow reach of my corporeal thoughts—into the vast depths of the unknown—amidst the obvious brightness of daytime she remains the most beautiful stone creature I have ever beheld.
Perhaps then, I could also be accused of foolishness or of being a fool for a twisted kind of excitement. Because as with risky spiritual games of old, I’ve convinced myself of her capacity to speak as well as my ability to provoke her to do so. The sound of her voice is as inevitable to me as the call of a passing goldfinch—harmless and melodic to my ears. Irresistibly, I often find myself meditatively beseeching her to interact (although I would definitely lose my wits if she actually did). I make eye contact and concentrate on the connection between our minds—well that is to say, I try to reach the soul she is meant to embody.
There are times I’ve become so thoroughly bewitched by my efforts, it is I drowning in the depths of fantasy. In order to restore reality, I literally have to shake myself free, as though from a reverse spell. Cognitive of at least this necessity, I allow shudders to overtake my body when I
detach
. My methodology requires me to start by purposefully trembling my fingertips. It usually progresses on its own after that. The quake makes its way up my arms to my shoulders and down my spine. My head falls forward and my entire frame then vibrates.
It might appear to an onlooker that I spasm by way of some spiritual influence. I should premise, I am rather receptive to vague inklings and such, but logic usually overrides the fantasy, since as I said, I am aware of the need to
snap out of it
. Nevertheless, even if were self-conscious of appearing like a lunatic to a passerby, I’m fairly certain no one is watching, at least not anyone material. Since also surely, he or she would come to my aid—were I seemingly possessed.
Upon a moonlit evening, however, I would not take that risk, not again anyway. Nowadays, under night’s blinding and shadowy screen, I would become so much less appreciative and instead more wary of the quivers that surround her. I know, because the last night I was bold enough to request a reply, there came a howling whoosh through the trees and an indecipherable spooky whisper to accompany it. I felt the wisp of a hand upon my shoulder and remember looking at the fuzzy apparition in confusion. In an instant, realization struck me but I was struck immobile and unable to utter a sound in through my fear. Then the distinct pressure of those ghostly phalanges made my standing there frozen equally impossible. Jolted into action, I ran two miles home without stopping and too afraid to look back.