I've enjoyed speaking with many of the students I've come in contact with and they have seemed to warm up to me. It is obvious, however, that I have much more in common with their parents, versus contributing to discussions regarding macho-posturing boyfriends (I tend to attract dialogue from young ladies rather than from male students).

I think, however, one of the greatest differences between the other students and me is that I have struggled through many more years of self-abuse and episodes of non-self-inflicted danger than they have. In a chronological sense, this would have to be true. I am certain, however, that some of them have undoubtedly suffered a lifetime of pain and tragedy. Their stories are private to them. I, on the other hand, am about to divulge my story to you.

In terms of non-self-inflicted danger, I came remarkably close to losing my life as a result of experiencing two potentially tragic situations. The first took place in Saint John, New Brunswick.

In 1963, I was a sixth-grade student and attending school in a suburb of Saint John. One particular morning in early November, I, along with a group of other students, was engaged in struggling through a spelling test that was being presented by our teacher.

The instructor, who also happened to be the principal of the school, was a gruff sort of person and whenever he issued orders, the students would snap to attention. Thus, at one point during the spelling test, when he barked, "Class! Stand up and follow me to another room!" we instantly arose from our chairs and began to follow him out of the classroom. For but a moment, my attention was diverted to various flakes of plaster which had begun to flutter down from the ceiling of the room.

The teacher bellowed, "Dobson, I told you to come along!"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir," I responded in a military manner while marching out of the room.

Within a minute of being seated in another room, the teacher, while momentarily gazing at a series of cracks that were spreading across the ceiling, announced, "Class! We must leave this building at once! Follow me!" Flakes of plaster were beginning to coat the desks of our classroom.

Fifteen minutes later, while the school's complement of teachers, other staff members, and students huddled in the frigid air of a late November afternoon, the top story of our school building collapsed. The life of every student and staff member of our school was saved on that blustery afternoon.

The next day, John F. Kennedy was assassinated and the story of our principal's act of heroism seemed to take a back seat to the horrific news emanating from Dallas.

My second near-death experience unfolded on a rain-deluged highway along the coastline of The Gulf of Mexico. To this very day, I shake uncontrollably when thinking of what might have been.

On a storm-engorged evening in the fall of 1985, I was driving along the highway that leads from New Orleans to Gulfport, MS. As torrents of rain slashed the windshield of my car, I desperately tried to focus my eyes on the road, but was unable to see any further than five feet past the end of my automobile's hood.

Every other minute or so, I tried to locate a suitable place, alongside the highway, where I might be able to pull off of the road and seek shelter. No such place was available, thus I continued to drive towards Gulfport. I also prayed. I prayed very hard and beseeched God to please get me through the journey.

For but an instant, I wiped my hand across my forehead in an attempt to stem the river of perspiration that was flowing into my eyes. Momentarily, the sting of the sweat caused me to blink once and then twice.

At the precise moment when my vision cleared, the headlights of my car blasted their searing daggers of light into the eyes of a deer that was frantically bounding across the highway. My scream of shock was only surpassed in ferocity by the smashing of my right foot on the brake pedal of my car. Instantly, as the deer darted off into the night, I lost control of the vehicle.

As the car careened in circles of terror down the highway, I desperately tried to regain mastery over the vehicle, but to no avail. I couldn't control this beast and I was more petrified than I'd ever thought possible.

While my fingers bore into the vinyl covered steering wheel, the rampaging tool of my destruction suddenly began heading for the side of the road that looked over the swirling waters of The Gulf of Mexico.

"Please, God," I screamed out in the surrealistic silence of my car's interior, "at least let the police find my body after I've crashed. Please, God, please! I want my family…I want them to know what happened to me!"

It was then that I chose to accept the inevitability of my impending doom. I was going to die. I knew that I was going to die and there was nothing that I could do about it.

At that moment, my body relaxed and I calmly awaited the arrival of my death.

At that moment, my hands softened their grip on the car's steering wheel.

At that moment, I ceased pummeling the brake pedal with my foot.

At that moment, my life was saved.

After my car had bounced off of a retaining barrier overlooking The Gulf of Mexico, I finally coaxed the vehicle to a stop about twenty feet down the far right hand side of the highway. As I sat bathed in an ocean of perspiration, I realized that a miracle had just taken place. Surely this gift would cause me to cherish my life and give me purpose. Surely this gift proved that I was on Earth for a very good reason and it was time that I got on with being all that I was supposed to be.

Until just recently, the two wake-up calls that I had been granted a very long time ago were soundly ignored. I have devoted these many past years to destroying myself and attempting to reverse the outcome of my two near-fatal experiences.

Since 1985, (and, to be truthful, long before that date) I have, in terms of inflicting punishment on my body:

1) Over the years, downed copious amounts of alcohol while attempting to convince myself that I was not suffering from an addiction to liquor.

2) Smoked, since the age of twenty, at least one pack of cigarettes per day.

3) Failed to exercise to any great and sustained degree.

4) Survived at least three bouts with an eating disorder (I have long been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa). Granted, this is a psychological problem and not one that I am primarily responsible for. I admit, however, that I've not tried to seek a permanent solution to my eating disorder, thus have certainly not respected my body in terms of dealing with anorexia nervosa.

5) During those times when I was not experiencing episodes with my eating disorder, I chose to shove fat-laden foods into my body.

In terms of failing to respect my life, I have:

1) Contemplated and threatened suicide on more than a few occasions.

2) Been satisfied to spend the majority of my life waiting for it to begin.

3) Basically wasted many years of potential career happiness by choosing to remain locked in a field of business that I despised.

4) Failed, as previously stated, to heed the wake-up calls that have been granted to me.

In short, I have acted like an irresponsible fool and someone who should have rightfully perished a very long time ago. I have been selfish to my family members and friends in the sense that I've not done anything to sustain my life. By failing to act in a responsible manner, I've basically told my family and friends that remaining alive and being in their company for many years to come just wasn't that important to me. That hasn't been my conscious intention, but the fact matters little.

I am 45 years old and if I hadn't recently taken stock and positive control of my life, my borrowed time might well be nearing the end of its run.

Today, however, I sense a feeling of hope and purpose regarding my future. You see, I've finally come to believe that there must be a very good reason why I survived the two near-fatal experiences described in this essay. There also must be a reason why my body has not chosen to give up the good fight and succumb to the punishment I've tortured it with over the past many years.

What is the reason? I believe, following months of soul-searching, that the answer lies in the fact that I have not yet achieved my destiny. I may well be destined to become a full-time naturalist writer and devote my efforts to authoring stories about nature's gifts to this world. Protecting and cherishing nature is the main passion of my heart and spirit. Surely my destiny lies somewhere in this area.

The promise of my future excites me beyond words and I will go forward armed with the knowledge that I am an extremely fortunate person.

Just as my youthful classmates have a reason for walking this planet, you and I have a purpose as well. We each have a destiny to fulfill and it is up to us to reach our potential by bravely walking along whatever path we choose to follow.

I pray that my classmates will not mimic my life and squander their years to come. I also pray that you will take heed of my words and refuse to reach for anything other than the stars and your own destiny.

I have heard my wake-up calls and it is time to dispose of my cigarettes and liquor. It is time to respect my body. It is time to cherish my life and get on with it. There is a reason that I have survived and I am about to discover what it is.

I would love to hear from you. My readers are very important to me and I answer each and every email. My contact is Gary.

You can find more articles in the archive under Reflections on a Dream