I bear the great pleasure of having a crippling fear of death. As soon as I start thinking about death, I loose all mobility. I get this horrible empty feeling in my stomach. It's like a mix of falling down an elevator shaft and nausea, with a side of 'hello-welcome-the-endless-black-pit-of-doom' sauce. I break out in cold sweats, my heart starts pounding, and I either start crying or break out into maniacal laughter. It's a treat, really. I find this fear very inconvenient since death is inevitable. Yes I know that death is inevitable. I have just not accepted the fact that death will happen to me. I can't. I'm already holding on to sanity by a thread so accepting this whole 'I'm going to die one day' thing will really just tip that sanity boat over the edge of the waterfall into 'Rocking back and forth whilst in fetal position' city.
The first time I had a panic attack about death was when I was about 8 years old (give or take one year). It's one of my most clear memories. I was in my old bedroom at the time, and the concept of death popped into my head. I began thinking about God, and religion and what everything means. I remember wondering that if we just die, and nothing happens, what was the point of living. The thoughts of how it was much to possible for my liking to feel absolutely nothing, to see nothing, to remember nothing, began to engulf me. These thoughts seeped into my mind like an unwanted conversation with someone you cannot stand, causing me to break out into hysterics and pull on my hair so forcefully that my scalp started pounding. Once I was able to move again and was just sobbing semi-uncontrollably, I grabbed my younger brother and sister and hugged them and just told them how much I loved them. My sister was looking at me with a "what the fuck are you doing" expression but I telepathically told her to just accept the hug because that is what 8 year old me needed at that time. My brother hugged the crap out of me because he was small (I think 3 or 4) and just loved hugs.
This memory really sticks out to me. I don't know how I calmed myself down. I can't ever remember how I calm down after these death-phobia-attacks. I know there is a lot of deep breathing involved and I think most of the time I just fall asleep since these thoughts generally creep up on me when I'm alone and in bed.
The reason I want to discuss this today is because there has been quite a bit of publication in regards to a two particular deaths in the last week (in my neck of the woods anyways). Allen Rickman and David Bowie have both passed away from that enemy we have all united against: Cancer.
I did not know these two very influential men on a personal level, so there death doesn't really effect me all that much. That being said, their demise has made me think lot about death this week and how these amazing people who have inspired so many of us are now just gone, but wont ever be forgotten.
Isn't that what we all want? To not be forgotten.
A lot of my phobia revolving around death entails getting old and being forgotten and forgetting my loved ones. That part is bolded because that concept, forgetting the people I love, is what keeps me up at night nearly 3 nights a week on average. I do not ever want to forget the people I love. I'm not to sure why I have this need to always remember the ones I have cared about most. It's just something that is very important to me. If I dig deep enough (but not too deep because we don't want to release the scary monsters out of the pits of Tartarus) into my mind I can tentively* say that my reasons for wanting to always remember the important people in my life are selfish. I want to remember them because I know that they undoubtedly love me back . And if they undoubtedly love me back, then they will always remember me. And that is what we all want. To be remembered.
It's selfish, I know. I should only want to remember my loved ones because they are amazing people who inspire me and care about me and would do anything for me. But I don't want to forget them because If I do, then who would remember me? Who would love me? I would be forgotten since I would not be able to remember the people who would remember, know, and care about me.
Then, I would really be alone.
* I know that 'tentatively' is not a real word. At least I don't think its a proper word, but it should be a word. Consider my usage of this word as a small protest against the word-choosing-people (place middle finger here).
