James Strazza made is exit on his own terms on May 4, 2026, at 38 years old. He didn't want to disappear, though. He left a lasting legacy for all of us, entrusting that his mother, Galen Warden, would somehow share his words with the world.

Help us fund James's final wish: that his story, philosophy about life, suffering, and death, and his final poems, would be shared with the world.

Please give as generously as you can because this one book could truly help the world's understand the tragic realities of life with severe Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME).  

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About the Book

A brilliant, talented man, in the prime of life, shares his final thoughts after an extremely disabling disease has left him a prisoner in his bed for seven long years.

James shares pathos and rage for his reality, as well as the wisdom and self-awareness that he has earned through suffering and isolation.

 

Watch how his mind deals with the pull between a practical decision to end his life, while wanting more than anything to live. See the excerpts below to get to know the value of hearing from James himself about his complicated thoughts on life, death, and suffering.

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Excerpts from Lowcountry

From Part 2 of the Book, Seven Years in the Dark: A Journal

 

You Won’t See Me

I remember the first time someone called me “disabled.” I was asking my brother-in-law to help me bring a giant bag of kitty litter up two flights of stairs to my apartment. I had to stop halfway to catch my breath, something he’s seen me do a hundred times. This was before I had a diagnosis and before I was bedbound. I was “moderate” in terms of my illness for a while, on and off. But at that moment, I felt very sick. In our short conversation, waiting to continue up the stairs, he said “… just tell them you’re disabled.” I froze for a few seconds; no one had ever called me disabled before, nor did I ever consider myself to be so. Was that an insult, I thought? But as I stood there with a thousand bad memories, I saw myself for the first time as a chronically ill person, as a disabled person. It was so strange; it felt like someone had changed my name. In an instant, I fell to the bottom of the social hierarchy. I knew my life would never be the same. I am a disabled man.

 

From Part 1 of the Book, Blue Roses and Unrequited Everything: Poetry

 

Warrior

Feathers weigh me down.

My tongue is too heavy to whisper;

all my breaths are labored.

My joints are stiff from not moving;

my muscles burning to stretch.

 

Every move I make crashes me harder;

an adjustment of my hand

resonates with the rest of my pain.

Such heightened stillness.

 

I’ve never tried harder at anything

than trying to simply exist.

 

To live is to move,

and I am but a

sculpture of a warrior.

 

 

 

From Part 4 of the Book, Digging Deeper: Finding Meaning in a Meaningless World

 

A Man’s Search for Hope

When I was in need of hope, I remembered a simple saying I came up with years ago: “In life, there is potential. And in potential, there is hope.” Though true, it took a little time for me to realize I was ignoring probability. In life, there is potential, but there is a high probability that I will never get better. I’ve read it before, but it feels dangerous to write, like I’m willing it to be. 

 

It’s a paradox: the more hopeful I try to be, the less hopeful I become. I’ve tried many methods and gadgets to help my symptoms, and each time I’ve felt some hope, something I haven’t felt in a while. But it’s seemingly inevitable that whatever gadget or method I try doesn’t work, and then I’m crushed. There’s nothing else hopeful on the horizon. That was the hope, that was the possibility of feeling better. And after the failure comes a feeling of having nothing. No hopeful method or drug, because I’ve been waiting months for what didn’t work. Maybe a medium level of hope is best. Rising too high makes for a devastating fall.

 

As I’m typing this, I’m feeling my biceps fatigue like I’m lifting weights. I’m clearly declining, and it seems rather quickly. I can’t have more nights like last night. I’m unable to communicate with my mother, and trying to communicate makes me much worse. It’s a cycle that’s hard to break. 

Sometimes I’ll go from hopeful to hopeless over the smallest thing. My emotional well is full from years of trauma. Just dropping a pebble in makes me overflow. Sometimes it’s anger, sometimes frustration, but usually sadness — the type of sadness that brings all the sorrows of my life to the foreground. But at this point, I think I’ve accepted my fate, as much as it hurts. 

 

From Part 6 of the Book, Last Days: Diary of a Dying Man

 

April 18, 2026

I went an entire year without my phone because looking at it caused severe eye pain and a sense that my brain was on fire.

I got through it by living in an imaginary world in my head. That world was so real that sometimes I’d laugh until my stomach hurt, having an imaginary conversation. I would cry, often — it was strangely easy to cry when things in that world led to tragedy.

Anyway, now I’m back on my phone and I’ve decided that in about a month’s time, I’m going to take my own life. That was heavy to write, almost like it’s not true, but it is, and I will, and I’m afraid.

I’ve been asking my mom for things I normally don’t, because I want a good last few weeks and not the same old dragging through the day. I’m going to do my best to enjoy myself. 

Step 1: Start eating gluten. I’m not supposed to, but fuck it. Penne with vodka sauce all day. And sandwiches. All my favorite foods have gluten.

Step 2: Reintroduce my body to caffeine, carefully and slowly so I can enjoy my last days sipping my favorite, fresh-off-the-farm, Japanese green tea. I have a handful of types and I just started with the type with the least caffeine: Houjicha. It is roasted so the caffeine is minimal.

The last few days I’ve been doing third brew, then second brew (each time you brew the same leaves, they have less caffeine), and today I had my first Houjicha (first brew), and it was wonderful. I didn’t get as much of a zap as I expected, because I’m insanely sensitive to caffeine.  

The fact that Houjicha would give me a zap would make any green tea lover laugh.

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END OF EXCERPTS FROM LOWCOUNTRY, SEVEN YEARS IN THE DARK