← This Is Actually Happening
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- [00:00]
Wit Misseldine
This Is Actually Happening features real experiences.
- [00:02]
Co-Producer/Host
That often include traumatic events. Please consult the show notes for specific.
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Wit Misseldine
Content warnings on each episode and for more information about support services.
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Co-Producer/Host
Hi listeners, we're so happy to be back with a brand new episode today as we return from the holiday break. You may have heard of today's storyteller, Joe Lynskey, or seen the video of him last year on TikTok. But today we get to hear the full story of his experience and what has happened in the years since. So without delay, here is the unthinkable story of Joe Lynske for today's episode. What if you were pushed into the path of an oncoming train?
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Joe Lynskey
What do I want to do with the rest of my life? Because I could die tomorrow. It's as simple as that. It can all be taken away from you like that.
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Wit Misseldine
From wondery, I'm wit misseldine. You're listening to this is actually happening.
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Co-Producer/Host
Episode 389. What if you were pushed into the path of an oncoming train?
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Wondery Announcer
Foreign. Subscribers can listen to exclusive episodes of this Is Actually Happening by joining Wondry plus in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts.
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Joe Lynskey
My family has roots in Miami back to about 1920. My mother's father did a bit of work with Henry Flagler, who basically created the city of Miami. My father opened his own real estate sales business. My father was sort of like a Don draper in the 60s and 70s and early 80s. My father, I've seen his passports, just hundreds and hundreds of stamps. He was one of the first developers in the bahamas, also in St. Martin. And my parents, over the course of their marriage, they had 12 children. So I am one of 12. My oldest brother is 20 years older than I am. I was the 11th child out of 12, so I was one of the last. My mother gave birth to nine children and my parents adopted three. My father and mother were very generous people. My father was on the board of a Catholic charity and they took in foster kids for years and years and they ended up keeping three of them. I have two adopted sisters and one of my brothers is adopted. So it often felt very chaotic and untethered for me. There was a lot of yelling, there was a lot of jockeying for attention, for affection, for. For space, just to be by yourself, for quiet. I did not grow up in a quiet household. There were a lot of dogs. I think at one point we had nine dogs at the same time. Every kid had their own dog. My mother is just an animal lover and we had a lot of outdoor cats. We had a bird, a talking parrot. So just added to the chaotic atmosphere of the house that I grew up in. The neighborhood that I grew up in was amazing. South Miami, unincorporated. It's beautiful, you know, subtropical, and there's huge banyan trees everywhere. We had wild parrots in our backyard, and there was snakes and scorpions, and we biked everywhere and we. We left the house after school and didn't come home until the sun went down. And we used to bike to the mangroves and just climb out into the bay, like into these jungle. So that part was really special. But my house was chaotic, to say the least. My father was gone a lot, and by the time I was born, my mother had already had 10 children. And she was tired. My mom was tired. That's what I remember. It wasn't the easiest place to grow up. There was a circus like atmosphere that was just constantly present. My parents fought. I remember a lot of screaming, I remember a lot of frustration. But there was warmth, for sure. And we never went without anything. My father was a provider, and I think he prided himself on that. And as I've gotten older, I know how lucky I am to have so many siblings. It's such a blessing. And I have, I think, at this point, 25 nieces and nephews. So I'm always going to have family. I will always have people to lean on, to talk to. I was a bright kid. I was inquisitive. I was really empathetic early on. I was very kind. I was also fearless. I grew up with five brothers, and I just learned very early on that I had to be able to hold my own in a certain respect or I was just going to get railroaded. I was curious, I was smart, I was sensitive. I was sensitive before I knew I was gay. But I knew I was gay very early on. I knew I was gay at probably 7 years old. And I was always comfortable knowing that I was gay until other people told me that it wasn't okay. Until I started being called a faggot and a homo really early on. But before that, I didn't understand it, obviously, but I knew that those feelings were there for me towards other boys. And it never bothered me until other people told me that it was wrong. And then everything changed. When you have to learn how to hide who you really are as a kid, everything just changes. I lost interest in school as I got older. Everything just got a lot more quiet. In a lot of ways, I grew up in the shadow of the aids crisis. Just what it was in the late 80s. Homosexuality, the queer community. It was a really difficult time for a lot of people. And the bullying started probably when I was in fourth or fifth grade. And it got really vicious. When I got into junior high, I lost confidence in myself and I just went inward. And then my father died very suddenly when I was 13. So that also just kind of altered everything. I had felt so untethered going into high school after my father died. Just kind of grasping for something to hold onto. And I just felt very unmoored. I could never really feel my feet on the ground, just like the carpet had been ripped out from beneath me. It wasn't until high school, the first year of high school, I met this amazing group of people. Some of them had blue hair, a mohawk and fishnets and combat boots. And I just knew. I looked at them and I knew. I was like, oh, these are my people. This is going to save me. For the first time in a long time, I felt a part of something. We were this ragtag group of gays and lesbians and queers and, you know, getting introduced to art in different ways and music, and it was a beautiful thing. My friends in high school really saved my life. I think that's one of the saddest things about that time. If I had just been able to just be who I wanted to be and just be myself, I don't think I would have been so racked with anxiety and guilt all the time about just wanting to, you know, kiss a boy. And high school really gave me this place to kind of discover my creative side. I was writing for the school newspaper. I was doing music reviews. I was so excited. I got to review the Nirvana album in Utero for the school newspaper. And, you know, I was introduced to rave culture and punk rock and Keith Haring and Basquiat. We were all freaks, were all on the outside. But together we formed, like, this powerhouse. Miami beach in the 90s was just this haven for artists, for the gay community, for the queer community. It was incredible. I went to my first rave when I was 15. It was D Light New Year's Eve behind the Surf Comer Hotel on South Beach. And my life was never really the same. I just knew when I left that place that I'd never felt so free before. But that's also when I started to drink. My father died a week shy of my 14th birthday. I never got to tell him that I was gay. I am 100% certain that if my father were here today, I think he would be very proud of who I was. But I would have liked to have just been able to show him who I was. I think when something is ripped away from you so suddenly, it just leaves this massive gash in your life. And I just ran from it. And I just kept running. I just kept running. My father's dad was a fall down drunk. It definitely runs in my family, and I definitely got that gene. I was looking for anything to remove me from that pain. Years of bullying and vicious name calling and threats. I just had so much bottled up. Then alcohol came into the picture, along with nightclubs. My mom sort of retreated and had to grieve on her own. There was not a lot of guidance or boundaries in place after my father's death. And my friends started to get cars and driver's license and I was off to the races, as they say. By the time I was 15, I was drinking, and then I discovered drugs at 16. And that combination just stayed with me for the next 15 years. I was really smart when I was a kid. I was in gifted programs and all sorts of things. But as soon as alcohol came into the picture, that all went out the window. Alcohol became my priority first and foremost. That's just what alcoholism does to people, you know, Everything else falls by the wayside, and that's what happened to me. And looking back now, it's a miracle that I'm alive. After high school, I wanted to work in the music industry, so there was a school in Orlando. I went and studied recording engineering and audio production. And I was able to sort of hold it together. I graduated, and then I got an incredible opportunity to go back to Miami and work in a recording studio on south beach, which was a dream. And my first day there, I sat at a desk, I picked up the phone and I was taking messages. And the GM and the two other people that worked in the studio, they were coming back from lunch and they just started saying the most incredibly homophobic stuff you've ever heard in your life. And here I am at 20 years old with this incredible internship opportunity. And my first day there, they just threw the word faggot out like 47 times. It was terrible. I was doing a great job. They loved me. They had no idea I was gay. And I didn't have the courage then that I do now to just call them out on their fucking homophobic bullshit. I just didn't have it. I was 20 years old, fresh out of school, trying to impress these people and get a real job, my dream job. I was surrounded by these homophobic assholes so after about six months of that, I started DJing. I was still working at the recording studio, but I started working at night. And I had taught myself how to DJ on vinyl. And I was making friends in the clubs on Miami beach. And I was slowly starting to make a name for myself. And I had my first DJ residency at this place called Power Studios. As soon as that happened, I left the recording studio. I just didn't show up one day. And they called me for a week asking me where I was. And I don't ever remember responding to them. I just flung myself into the nightclub world. It was fantastic until it wasn't. Pretty quickly I just fell into a really deep cocaine addiction. I lasted on Miami beach about two years and then everything just caught up with me. You know, I was doing drugs every night of the week. I was exhausted, I couldn't hold it together. I got fired from that DJ gig that I had at this incredible nightclub. Cause I just was a mess. But lo and behold, I applied to a paid internship at this record label in New York City called Astroworks, which was back then the biggest electronic music label in America. And they said, come up, we want to hire you. I packed up a U haul in October of 2000 and I drove to Brooklyn. I parked my U haul on Halloween night and went and got blackout drunk. And that was the next 12 years of my life in New York, working at this amazing record label during the day and I was bartending at night in a gay bar. My friends from Miami, a lot of them had come to New York. I was enmeshed in this world of DJs and drag queens and club kids and go go boys. And I was having the time of my life. But there was always a darkness there for me. Because once I start drinking, I really can't stop until everything is gone. So for 12 years in New York, it was basically the same night over and over again. It was like a doom loop. And it was exhausting and terrible. And I hurt a lot of people and I hurt myself. Even when I was really trying to hold it together for my career, it would all fall apart because of my drinking. And I just hit a wall. Everything stopped working. The drugs didn't work, the alcohol didn't work any longer. And I was alone. 2012, Thanksgiving morning. I had not been invited anywhere for Thanksgiving, to no surprise of my own. Blacking out and pissing people off. And I was alone in my apartment on Thanksgiving morning and the sun was coming up and I had a plate full of drugs in front of me, and I just didn't know who I had become. I didn't recognize myself. I didn't recognize my life. I had lost the majority of contact with my siblings. I made a phone call to a sober person I had met that summer. And then I went to bed and I slept all day, and I went and met someone at a 12 step meeting that night on Thanksgiving in 2012. And that is the day that my life changed. And I have been sober ever since. So I was 33 when I had my last drink, and life just started to blossom. Alcohol and drugs had taken everything from me, and here I was, like, newly reborn. Sobriety really forces you to kind of look back on all the mistakes that you made, all the people that you hurt, and you get a chance to rectify all of that, you know, it was such a beautiful experience. I got to make amends to my friends and my family, and I started to travel as a sober person and not like getting blacked out drunk on planes or in airports. And it was a world with fresh eyes, and I felt healthy for the first time in a long time. And I built and created friendships that I have to this day. It's the most important thing I've ever done for myself. I think for me, my alcoholism really, and my drug use was tied up in the nightlife world in New York, and I had to let that go. I learned that I'm happiest when I'm giving back to people. And I started to help a lot of people in the sober community. And I started working for a company, and they curate playlists for hotels and retail and businesses all over the world, curating playlists for Equinox and Michael Kors and Tom Ford. And I was working on music for Carnival Cruise Lines, and it was a godsend. Sobriety also gave me the chance to rediscover a passion of mine, which is tennis. I'm part of the gay league Metropolitan Tennis Group. And when I'm playing well on a tennis court, my mind clears in a way. Anxiety just dissolves. It just disappears. Also in sobriety, I discovered how much I love to be outside and hike. And I climbed Half Dome in Yosemite with my best friend, Armando. My life just grew and grew the more sober I got. I just became so much more comfortable with who I am as a human being and the things that I cared about and the things that I wanted to focus my time and energy on. I was able to become the truest version of myself. And I recently celebrated 13 years of sobriety 13 years without a hangover is absolutely an incredible feeling. Foreign. So it's December 2024. I had just recently moved to a new apartment in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. It was the holidays and I woke up on New Year's Eve. The rain was hitting my windows when I woke up and my dog was there. I have a dog. His name is Leo. I've had him for almost 17 years. And around 11am I left my apartment to go to brunch and I got on the 23 Express and I got off on 14th street and 7th Avenue in Manhattan. And I had a beautiful brunch with my three friends. And around 1:15, the lunch was over. We all said goodbye and I was with my friend Mark, one of my closest friends, and we walked east on 18th street towards 7th Avenue. There's this interesting subway stop on 18th street and 7th Avenue. It's the 1 train, so it's the local line on the 23. And I had planned to take the 23 Express from 14th street, but when we walked by the local stop on 18th, I saw that the local one train was coming in one minute and. And I was cold and, you know, I knew the express was only a four, four blocks away. And I made this split second decision, just waved at Mark. I gave him a hug. I was like, I'm gonna jump on the one. And I just bounded down the steps. The train was literally coming. I went through the turnstile and I could feel the platform vibrating. I was headed home to myself. Just take a nap and then get dressed to go back into Manhattan for a party later that night. I took a peek down the tracks and I could see the lights of the one train headed into the station. And I was like, cool. I didn't see anybody else around. I can see the lights of the train coming down the tracks. I am standing pretty close to the edge of the platform and I took out my phone to put on some music. And I was looking down and then I felt the hardest shove. And I knew immediately, instantaneously, what had happened to me. I said to myself, oh, my God, you've been pushed and this train is going to kill you. I will never forget. I flew into the air. I'm a pretty strong person. I work out a lot. And I was not braced to be attacked from behind. I didn't see anyone walking up to me. I didn't see anyone get a running start to attack me. I was not braced for someone to push me. So I went flying through the air, literally as the train is coming right up my face, so close, I can see the shape of the train conductor in the window of the first car of the train that's lit up. I literally saw him as I was flying through the air. My life did not in any way flash before my eyes. The only thing I thought was, I've been pushed and I'm going to die. There have been many instances over the years, especially over the last seven or eight years, of people being pushed onto the tracks. The majority of them have died, and it is a New York City nightmare. And I was fully aware when I felt his hands on my back that I was now someone who got pushed onto the tracks. It was literally the first thought that I had. I slammed into the tracks and my head cracked open, and the train roared above my head. Everything went black. And I opened my eyes maybe a few seconds later, and I was underneath the train. I had landed in between the tracks, in between the running rails of the train. I had landed perfectly in between the tracks. It's sort of very difficult to comprehend how the train did not tear my limbs off or tear me to pieces. I sleep on my left side. I'm a left side sleeper, and I landed on my left side in between the tracks. But when I first opened my eyes, it's like I opened my eyes like I had just woken up because I was in my sleeping position. It's otherworldly in some way. I had now survived the unsurvivable. And I had tons and tons of steel and metal literally on top of me. And I'm breathing. I'm alive. I can see the light coming in from the other side of the platform through the wheels of the train. And the third rail is right there. Most people who ride the subway are aware that there's an electrified rail that powers the trains that runs the entirety of every subway line in the city. And when I opened my eyes, I could see the third rail. It was very, very close to my body. And I knew that if I kicked or if I moved, if I struggled, if I tried to drag myself to safety, I was fully aware of the danger. I would probably electrocute myself to death. I said to myself, you have to stay calm. I was terrified. But I said to myself, if you struggle, if you kick, you're gonna die. I remember calling out for help. I said, I've been pushed. I've been pushed. Somebody pushed me. Please help. I mean, I'm in Manhattan in the middle of the afternoon on New Year's Eve. I'm underneath a train. No one responded to me. And I would say for two minutes, I laid there alone, screaming for help, and there was no response. I knew immediately that I was bleeding from my head. I could feel it. There was a moisture dripping down the left side of my head. And because the platform, I would say, is about a good 5 to 7ft, the distance from the platform to the tracks, and I was shoved so hard, I crashed into the tracks, and I had a searing, shooting pain going down the entire left side of my body. I knew immediately that I had probably broken my ribs. And my main concern was the blood that was pooling. I could see it now from the corner of my eye that there was blood coming from my cracked skull. And every time I took a breath or I screamed for help, I was getting this absolutely red hot fireball of incredible pain that was coursing through my entire body. It was the most painful thing I had ever experienced. I had to figure out for myself if I was paralyzed. I wiggled my fingers and I wiggled my toes, and I said, okay, like, I'm not paralyzed. I knew that I was between the tracks, but I was sandwiched between the wheels of the subway car. And I didn't understand, like, how I had not been, like, torn in half or I wasn't missing a leg or my arm hadn't been ripped off. So I'm just very quickly trying to figure out what I'm capable of physically because no one was answering my calls for help. What I do know is that the conductor saw me get pushed, and he saw me go into the air, and he slammed on the brakes of the train. When he slammed on the brakes, I would say about 3 of the subway cars pulled forward over my body. But the conductor did not open the doors. He slammed on the brakes, and he kept the door closed. And I'm sure he was calling for help and letting the MTA and the fire department and the police know there was a man underneath his subway car, and that was me. I kept waiting for people to come onto the platform or someone to respond to me. I didn't understand why no one was answering my calls for help or why the platform wasn't flooded with people and why the doors of the subway cars did not open. I have all of these racing thoughts, and I'm in this terrible pain, but also extremely calm. You know, I've been in terrible situations before as a drug addict and an alcoholic. And I weirdly kind of think that all those experiences that I put myself through kind of prepared me to, like, wake up underneath this train and protect myself. I Just instinctively knew that I had to stay calm. I had to take care of myself, I had to breathe. But then again, every time I took a breath to try and calm myself down, my ribs were just skyrocketing with pain. Finally, I hear a voice, and it's a woman. I knew that I could lift my head a little bit. And I looked up and I could see the platform that I was pushed off of. And I saw this black coat and this long red hair. She was just a commuter, and she had just gone down into the station, and she sees this train barely pulled a quarter of the way into the station. And she's like, what's going on? And then she hears me, and I'm begging for help. And she asked me my name, and I told her my name. And she asked me what had happened. And I told her that I had been pushed and that I was attacked. She asked me if I was okay. I said I was okay. I said, I'm terribly hurt. I'm in so much pain. Can you please get help? And then she asked me to spell my name. And I think she was trying to keep me awake because I was drifting in and out of consciousness. So I'm sitting there underneath this train, and I'm literally spelling out my last name. And I'm just thinking, like, what the fuck is happening? Like, how is this happening? Where are the police? Where's the fire department? I'm actually getting kind of annoyed. It's amazing the things that go through your mind when you're in a near death experience and you're trying to fight for your life, which I really, truly was. It's not just the third rail that has electricity. There's something called these metal shoes that are all along the trench of the tracks. And if I had touched one of those, I would have been, you know, fried to death. I didn't know about the shoes at that time, but I knew that I couldn't really move. But I was getting so frustrated. Whether I fell unconscious or I was having these, like, dreams of some sort. Like, I just thought about all these things in my life, all these situations I had been in and people. I thought about my father. I thought about one of my brothers. I thought about my years as a drug addict. And I saw myself in a pool with my dad and my siblings on Hutchinson island where we used to vacation. And all these kind of beautiful pieces of my life were like, kind of floating through my head. And then I would wake up and I would realize, oh, my God. And someone would be talking to me again, I would say four to five minutes in, I finally heard a siren. I remember I took this really deep breath when I heard a siren, because I felt like I'm going to be okay. Then it was just absolute chaos. I just remember the sound of the siren getting closer and closer, and it was swirling into the station, boots clamping on the stairs, and I heard all of this clacking and flashlights, and they were circling over my body, and I could see the light from a flashlight crossing over my face. And then this man yelled, and he's like, fdny. Fdny. What's your name? What's your name? And again, I told him my name. And they asked me what happened. I said, I was pushed. I was pushed. Please, please help me. The FDNY was trying to talk to the mta, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, to see if they could cut power to the station, to cut power to the third rail, because the fire department is going to have to come down there, and they're risking their lives. These guys are going to risk their lives and crawl next to this electrified rail to come and get me. And I guess the MTA could not cut the power to the station. And there's two firefighters, John and Jonathan. They specialize in rescuing people from the subway. They pull people out. That's what they do. And their engine company was right around the corner from the subway station, literally a block away. And just the very night before, on December 30, their engine company, their battalion, John and Jonathan, had trained to pull someone out from beneath the subway train just the night before. And I heard this crunching sound. I looked up, and I saw an FDNY uniform. And all of a sudden, I had these two men looking at me. I'm looking up, and I'm just, like, so thankful to see these two guys. It was really incredible. They risked their lives to come and get me. It's something I will never, ever, ever forget. I'm still so much gratitude to both of them and to their. Their whole engine company and to every first responder that showed up onto that platform. They looked at me and they're like, okay, do you know what the third rail is? And I said, yes. They're like, good, because you can't touch it. If you touch it, we're all going to die. All of us under here will die. And they said, you have to remain really still. We're going to figure out how to get you out of here. The more and more awake that I am now, the more and More pain my body is in. Because now there's just like total chaos on this platform. So many first responders on the platform and now more regular people have just come, and people are just now flooding into the station. These two firefighters looked at me and they said, can you move? And I said, I don't know if I can move. I'm in so much pain. I think I broke my ribs. Everything on my left side was on fire. And they said, we're going to drag you out. And I said, you're going to drag me? And they said, we have to move right now. One of them took one foot and one of them crawled in front of me and tried to get an arm. I can see the blood had pooled all around my face. And they're like, we gotta go, we gotta go. And then I'm just being dragged and I started screaming in pain. I. I will tell you, if you've ever been to New York City and you've seen the subway tracks, it is not a clean place. So I was dragged through the filth and the muck of the New York City subway system. The air was, like, really dank and acrid, and it smelled like wet metal. And I will never forget, like, this really heavy metallic scent that was, like, permeated all around me. So they dragged me to the opening between two cars, and they said, have to throw you against the platform wall. I could not comprehend what was happening. I was in so much pain. And John and Jonathan, they just took me by my arms and they heaved my body against the concrete wall. They said, we're going to lift you up. And now I have people talking to me from the platform above. And they said, you have to raise your arms. And I said, I can't. And they said, you have to raise your arms up. Can you please raise your arms up? And I stuck my arm straight in the air, and there were hands on my hands. And I was pulled up from the tracks and I was heaved onto the platform and I felt a pain I have never felt before in my life. It's hard to describe the redness, the hotness, the searing and scorching pain that ran through my body. When they threw me onto the platform, I almost passed out. And I was screaming. I was screaming in pain. They lifted me up and then there was a stiff board placed underneath my body. And they were shearing my clothes off with surgical scissors right there on the platform to see what injuries I had sustained. They cut through my jeans, they cut through my puffer, my winter coat. And Just with this clean whoosh. Then I'm on the platform in my underwear, and it's freezing. You know, it's the end of December. It's New Year's Eve. Then I look up, and I can see people that were still inside the subway car because the doors of the subway still had not opened, and they had their phones out. So people are trying to get a photo of me laying there on the platform, and everyone is screaming, he's alive. He's alive. He's breathing. He's alive. I looked at the firefighter, and I said to him, I was like, I know. I'm really, really hurt. I know I'm hurt really bad, but my dog is home alone. That's the first thing I said on the platform. Because my dog Leo, he was 16 at the time, and he's blind and deaf pretty much, and he was home alone. And I realized when I was underneath the train that what was my dog going to do? I'm laying there underneath this train, and this poor, old, elderly dachshund is sitting at home waiting to be fed. And I just, like. I couldn't get the thought out of my head that he wasn't going to be taken care of. And everything just went bananas after that. They snapped a neck brace around my neck, and I was bleeding profusely from my skull, and they had to get me to the hospital. And, you know, within a minute, I'm being wheeled out of the station. The stretcher hits the street, and it's so cold. The wind is just whipping, and there's, like, light rain, and there was a humongous crowd of people on the corner, just regular New Yorkers just trying to figure out what had gone on. And I saw people grab their phones out, and I'm being wheeled out on a stretcher, and I'm thrown into the back of an ambulance, and the door slams, and we're on our way to the hospital. I said to the emt, I need my phone. I need my phone. He was like, I don't have your phone. And I was like, my dog is home alone. I need to talk to my family. Can you please tell me where I'm going? And he said, just please calm down. We're going to take care of you. You're going to be okay. I just remember being really confused in the back of the ambulance and starting to realize the full extent of what I had just been through. I was wheeled into the emergency ICU, and it was pandemonium. I mean, there was probably three doctors, 10 nurses, multiple police officers. I'm being wheeled down this hallway into an operating room, and I didn't know what to do. I just tried to keep breathing. A social worker came up to me, and she had my phone in her hand, and I told her to call my sister Kathy, and I told her about my dog. I would not stop talking about my poor little blind dog at home. And in this amazing, beautiful twist, my nephew, who is eight years younger than I am, was in the city with his wife. And I had just seen him three nights before for dinner. And somehow within maybe an hour, maybe a little bit longer of me being in the hospital, I see my nephew Matthew walk in the door, and I just. I started crying. I started crying. And he took my hand and he said, you know, I'm here. I'm here, I'm here. The doctor came and he said, you've ruptured your spleen. We're going to have to operate on it. It's hard to describe when you've pulled out from beneath a train alive, and then you're in a hospital and they're telling you that they're going to remove your spleen. I just couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. And then I heard someone say, there's a video. They're trying to catch the guy. They put out a video. And I said, a video of what? And she said, of you being pushed. It was all caught on tape. He had run outside of the subway station on 18th Street. They caught him at 59th Street. My nephew started talking about the video, and he had seen it, and he said it was brutal. And my mind just couldn't really comprehend that it was now on video being shot across the world. I was in the ICU for five days, and I broke four ribs. I fractured my skull open, and I had a concussion and the ruptured spleen. And I was at Bellevue for a week. And it was extremely intense, extremely painful. They had me walk on day three in the icu, and it was really hard to walk. My sister came to New York that night on New Year's Eve. She landed shortly before midnight, and she came into the room about 12:30am on January 1, and she took my hand, and we both started crying. I had an incredible group of friends that never left my side. Another gift of recovery and sobriety. The community just really rallied around me and just showed up in this intensely beautiful way, and I'm forever grateful for that. I was really overwhelmed because the video had gone viral immediately. You know, I was in the New York times, and my phone was ringing off the hook. And I had all of these media outlets contacting my family constantly. I wouldn't see it myself for two or three more days. I was communicating with people. And I opened TikTok, and it was the first video I saw. It was the very first video I saw of TikTok was myself in my winter coat, standing on the platform, and I'm taking my phone out of my pocket, and I stare at my phone, and the man who attacked me runs up from behind and pushes me, and I fly into the air just as the train is coming into the station. And you see my body gets sucked underneath the train. And anyone who sees that video would assume that I was dead. My heart just stopped. My mind went blank. And it didn't truly hit me that I survived the unsurvivable, the urban New York City nightmare of being thrown onto the tracks. And then there's this video. It's not a long clip. It's maybe nine seconds. And I watched it again, and then. And then I threw my phone down. It was very surreal and bizarre to see myself being attacked. It was very haunting. And I struggled to understand how I was pulled out alive. It's really difficult to imagine what could have been when I see that video. That's what the video takes me to, is what could have happened. I've been in therapy since early January of this year, and I've had 10 months to kind of go over, over and over again, everything in my mind that keeps me awake at night, because it's a miracle that I'm alive. It's a miracle that I have my arms and my legs, and it's a miracle that I'm not paralyzed. So that video will stay with me for probably the rest of my life. And in. In some aspects now, when I see it, it's a powerful reminder for me to just keep moving forward, just to keep going, because it's all right there. My death is right there. I can see it. And I'm glad I can watch this happen to myself, because it gives me the strength to know that I am alive and how much gratitude I have for my life today. So when I got home, it was just a whirlwind of pain, physical pain. Was doing physical therapy for the ribs at home for maybe 10 weeks, and then I was in the vestibular therapy for my balance and vision issues, doing all these vision tests. And it was really, really a difficult time. I've really struggled to sleep a lot the last 10 months. The pain from my Ribs was so awful. And I had to sleep laying flat on my back, and I can't let go of the what if of this whole situation, this violent push. I have these flashes when I'm trying to go to sleep of, you know, the train hitting my legs and bleeding to death underneath the train. But it was also really touching, this sort of beautiful aspect of friendship and community showing up to take care of me and just people from all over the world. I was interviewed for the New York Times by this amazing journalist, Katie, and she wrote a beautiful story about what happened to me. It could have been anybody on that platform. And I think people really reacted to my story in that way, and it was truly touching. I was in a lot of pain for 90 days, an incredible amount of pain. And then slowly, just through physical therapy and rehab, my life just started to kind of in no way get back to normal. But I could walk around. I could see my friends easier. I could go sit down at a restaurant, and I was getting stopped on the street. I would be in a coffee shop in my neighborhood, and people would come up to me and, you know, just say that they're glad that I'm alive. And it was really beautiful. New Yorkers, really. We respond to each other in a really kind way, and that's something I really love about this city. The firefighters, John and Jonathan, I had the incredible opportunity to meet them in person about a month after I was attacked. They told me that I was the very first person that they pulled out alive from beneath a train. They almost looked at me as if sort of I was a ghost, because I think they were just so shocked to see me walking and smiling and hugging them. And I will be forever grateful to the FDNY and those two men for pulling me out. I think I went back to work 20 hours a week, and in the beginning of April, I needed something to just kind of occupy my mind, and I just sort of had to figure out how you piece your life back together. I don't believe that we're defined by the things that happen to us. I think what makes us as people is how we react to what the universe throws at us. I didn't want things in my life to be taken from me by what had happened to me. I was really empathetic with myself, and I gave myself space to heal properly. I gave myself space to be alone when I needed to be alone. Summer came, and my first plane trip, I went and saw my mom was, you know, something I really needed to do. I got on a plane And I went to see my mom, and I got to see some of my sisters, and life just slowly started to open itself up again. Once the pain went away, I had this opportunity to kind of figure out what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be again. It was kind of like I had a chance to start new on January 1, 2025. I just started to kind of look at a lot of things in my life through a different lens. I have an amazing therapist, and I've talked through so much about what's happened to me and the other traumatic events that have kind of connected my life in a lot of ways. And I'm. I can say that I'm a survivor. I'm a survivor. I've always been a survivor. Life can change on a dime. I think we all know that. You never, ever know what is around the corner. And I've learned today to expect the unexpected. Always. One of the things that's been a real challenge, especially living in New York City. Since I was attacked, I was pushed from behind. I didn't see the person who pushed me. I thought I was standing alone. And I don't like people coming up from behind me on the street, even joggers in broad daylight on a sidewalk. I've jumped into the air. I've had mini panic attacks. Someone walking close to me and trying to brush by me on a really busy street. That's definitely part of my ptsd. And it's been really difficult for me to just sometimes even walk outside. Someone just jogging down the street, but I can't see them. And I hear footsteps running towards me, and I've. I've jumped in the air. It's. It's something I'm working through in therapy, but it's. I feel like a piece of my city has almost been taken from me. And I'm proud of the progress that I've made. And I'm out and about, and I have been for a really long time since the attack. But it's. It's something that lingers, and it. It hasn't left. But I don't live in the past. This man attacked me. It was brutal. It was violent. I was hurt, but I can't change what happened to me. I'm a control freak in a lot of ways. I'm very type A. And a random, violent attack on my life just. There were so many things that were out of my control. I've had to really lean into acceptance. Like, acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today. I just have to Accept what's been done to me, what's in front of me, and I can only try and move forward and heal and keep asking for help. I think sobriety taught me you can't alter the past. I can only have my feet on the ground today, and that's the only way I know how to live. The man who attacked me, his name is Kamel. He's very young. He was caught shortly after he attacked me, and he's been in Rikers ever since. Without bail, I don't think about him often. I don't have a lot of space in my life for negativity or resentment or anger. It's a difficult thing to think about. I know that he's hurt other people. From what I understand, I do not know a lot about him. There will be a criminal case. He has pled not guilty, but he is in Rikers without bail. But for now, I don't have the space to hold on to what he did. I just move forward. And I know there will be a time where maybe I can learn more about why he did what he did. Attempted murder will really make you take stock of what your focus should be and. And where and who you give your energy and life to. That is something that I realized after I was attacked, was. I am so grateful for the things I have in my life. And I did. In December 30, 2024, I had all of those things, but I was coasting, and when my head hit those tracks, it was like, in a way, a chance for me to take stock of a lot of things and really just force myself to take account of who I am now and what I want to do with the rest of my life. Like, what do I want to do with the rest of my life? Because I could die tomorrow. It's as simple as that. It can all be taken away from you like that. In some ways, everybody is on a train. We all have this thing that pulls us forward in life or keeps us stuck in one place. But I know that we all want, I think, to end our trip in a better place than where we began. And I have bottled up a lot of shame and guilt and grief in my life in many, many different ways. And I think when my head cracked open on those tracks, a lot of the pain that was released, it forced me to examine my life in ways I hadn't in a really long time. It just kind of gave me this new form of light in my life from such a dark, violent attack. I'm fiercely independent, and it can be a flaw of mine, and this year really helped me see that I don't need that to be true anymore. People care about me and there are people that truly, deeply love me for who I am. And I think that's what this attack really showed me in the end was that I am loved. And I can feel good saying that. And it's not easy for me to say that I am loved.
- [50:11]
Co-Producer/Host
Today's episode featured Joe Linsky. If you'd like to reach out to Joe, you can find his email and socials in the Show Notes. News coverage related to Joe's incredible story, along with links to his DJ bio and sounds can be found in Joe's link tree. Also found in the show notes.
- [50:31]
Wit Misseldine
From Wondery. You're listening to this Is Actually Happening. If you love what we do, please rate and review the show. You can subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music or on the Wondery app to listen ad free and get access to the entire back catalog. In the Episode notes you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors. By supporting them, you help us bring you our show for free. I'm your host Wit Misseldine. Today's episode was co produced by me and Andrew Waitz with special thanks to the this Is Actually Happening team including Ellen Westberg.
- [51:02]
Co-Producer/Host
The opening music features the song Sleep.
- [51:04]
Wit Misseldine
Paralysis by Scott Velasquez. You can join the community on the this Is Actually Happening discussion group on Facebook or follow us on Instagram Actually Happening on the show's website thisisactually happening.com you can find out more about the podcast. Contact us with any questions, submit your own story or visit the store where you can can find this Is Actually Happening designs on stickers, T shirts, wall art, hoodies and more. That's thisisactually happening dot com. And finally, if you'd like to become an ongoing supporter of what we do, go to patreon.com happening even 2 to $5 a month goes a long way.
- [51:41]
Co-Producer/Host
To support our vision.
- [51:42]
Wit Misseldine
Thank you for listening.
- [51:51]
Wondery Announcer
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