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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2004-01-14
10:23 a.m.
On the bright side of things, I’m feeling pretty creative lately. Of course I am. That’s what happens when the drugs start to go screwy. I regain the creativity that is usually stuck beneath a barricade of serotonin reuptake inhibitors. It must be that serotonin has something to do with creativity. And to think there are scholars who go to school their entire lives to study the connection between creativity and mental illness.
It all seems so obvious.
It’s been a week and two days since my bunny died, and I’m still having trouble getting over it. My older sister called the other day just to talk since she’d heard about Lloyd, and all I could do was feel guilty for being so sad. I’m sad because my bunny died, and I can’t seem to let it go. My sister’s best friend from childhood was killed two summers ago. How can I complain to her about how sad I am that death took away a loved one? I’m still sad, but it’s different. And I feel guilty.
Fucking guilt.
It’s funny how my body reacts to death. My mind understands it and deals with it on the rational, conscious level. But in the deeper realms of subconscious irrationality, I’m a wreck. I turn into a total catastrophe of a person. The very thought of death makes me feel numb and nauseous, like I’m going to puke first, then watch my hands fall off my arms from lack of circulation. All these years I’ve thought I had such a close understanding of death.
It may be time to reconsider.
I’ve always thought I knew death more intimately than most people since it was so frequently on my mind. Everyday, I’d watch visions of myself in my head, hit by a car on the road, fallen off a twenty-story building, or trapped in a burning building. Death everywhere, and I was prepared. I was ready for death. I didn’t mind. I declared the fact that death did not scare me in the least. I knew it existed, I accepted it, and I was just waiting patiently.
But I was wrong.
I think the possibility exists that I am just so extremely terrified by the thought of death that it haunts me relentlessly. This would explain the visions of my own death, the conviction that every plane I get on is going to be hijacked and go down, even before the whole 9/11 thing. This would explain the desire to kill myself, so as to avoid the unpredictability of the situation. You never know when death will come.
And that’s the really scary thing.
So, once again, I guess it all comes down to control. The existence of death makes me feel like I have no control over anything. Anything and everything I do with my life is overshadowed with the knowledge that it will all mean nothing the day after I die. There’s nothing I can do.
And I’m not very pleased about it.
