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Jan. 28th, 2004 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleI woke screaming the other night.
I hadn’t fallen completely into sleep, yet. I was just there, hovering. It was 3am; I should have been tired and safely past the point of thinking, but there’s a nasty, perverse creature in my brain that waits, waits, waits til I’m weak and off-guard to strike out at me. And out of nowhere, it’s the same old terror, pulling me up onto my knees in the dark, screaming "NO!" into my teeth until I shoved my face into the pillow just to shut myself up.
I’ve had these terrors since I was a child. Since I was five years old, and I asked my Daddy if he believed in Heaven, and instead of the comforting lie, I got the stark, "no." It’s always the same thing. It’s such a human thing. I’m afraid of dying.
I don’t mean that I’m afraid I’m sick now, or my demise is somehow imminent. I mean to live a long life if G-d will let me, and barring any earthly stupidity. But my vision of death is a great presence, waiting there in the distance, absolutely unavoidable, like the blade at the end of the cattle chute.
I don’t fear pain. I don’t fear the sickness. It’s the utter loss of myself. It’s the thought that the battles I’ve fought so hard to make myself, bone by bone and fiber by fiber and drop of blood by drop, will, in the end, be swept away like the destruction of one of those great colourful sand mandalas.
Such works are, I know, meant to be enjoyed in the creation, with the knowledge that they’re only temporary, that they’ll be gone as soon as they’re complete. But I’m not bright grains on the floor. When I die, what will happen to my experiences?
What about the first novel I wrote, when I was eight, based on that book about the animals left after a great flood? I wrote it on my Dad’s ancient typewriter, sitting in his chair at the dinner table. What about that rush of joy as I ran into my grade school library for the book sale, dollars clutched in my fist, almost overcome with the knowledge I could buy and keep any book there? What about the moment I looked up while brushing my hair behind the booth in Sarasota and saw him standing there, taking my picture, and wondered why? Or the moment I hugged him, late that night, sweaty from dancing and drumming around the fire in the sand, and thought I’d never see him again? What about the moment I got his letter, and the first date? And the night I sat on the side of the bed, staring out over the city, dead inside because I knew what he was going to tell me in the morning?
What will happen to the first time I heard Over the Rhine, with tears sliding down my face at "Poughkeepsie"? What happens to the memories of my mother’s roses in a bowl in the dining room? What happens to the way I loved Tom, the butcher, who died while I was in England, and my parents didn’t tell me because they knew how it would upset me? What happens to the first time I saw myself in my new green gown and almost didn’t know who I was? The echo of the scream as I threw myself across the board with my own broadsword and felt it bite deeply into his? The rabbit I embroidered? The feeling the first time I understood how to draw what I saw, not what I thought I saw? To draw in actuals, not symbols? What happens to the way I stare at sunsets in Bermuda, stars in Lancaster?
What happens to the roil of emotions that afternoon I crawled out to the couch, confused and alone, and cried, and cried, and cried, and the way I know to this day he doesn’t—can’t—understand why?
What happens to the way I spin the rack once the balls are perfectly aligned on the baize, the way Patrick taught me? Or the way I cry every time I hear Tchaikovsky’s pas de deux from Nutcracker? What happens to the way I love roses? What happens to the memories of my parents that no one else has? The way our house smelled in Spring, the way the light used to come down the stairs before the den went up?
Who will remember Kayli, Jenny, Marvin, Patrick, Tom, Glenn, even John, the way I do? Who will remember the way I looked at them?
It always used to be Kayli I called to, hugged fiercely while I whimpered into her fur. She didn’t know why I was upset, she didn’t ask for an explanation. She just flopped beside me on the bed and kept me company while I fought it down. Clue’s too young, still. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, and it distresses her—she’s only ten months old, after all. I can’t explain it to her, and it’s not just the language barrier: I don’t understand the fear, either.
Part of it is the terrible, terrible fear of being alone. Not alone as in how empty my bed is now. Alone in the way that all of us are separate, unable, in the end, to truly touch. That we will all live and die ultimately alone, even surrounded by family and lovers. We first feel it not so long after we separate ourselves from our parents: no one understands me! I’ve been this way for years—no one has ever really understood me. Hell, I don’t even understand me: I’m deeply old-fashioned, yet a bleeding-heart liberal and Goth. Sometimes I run on two different paths and come around a corner only to crash into myself. But I know what I know, and I hold tight to some things; I’m cynical and jaded, I don’t believe love lasts, and I have a terrifying violent streak no one sees, but I believe in love, and equality, and tolerance, and peace, and I will do almost anything for my ideals.
I lost everything I had in inside in my teens: every bit of comfort and normalcy. And I rebuilt myself like so many of us do: I’ve spent the last fifteen years—longer—working on who I am and what that means. And I have, G-d willing, many more years to refine that. So is it any wonder I wake up screaming when that little voice in my head says, "Well, yeah, but what’s the point? I’ll swallow it all in the end."
The stillness, and the blackness terrify me, and it doesn’t matter that I won’t actually know them. Maybe. Perhaps I will. Who knows?
But I’m a control freak, and I can’t stand not knowing. Neither can I stand giving it all up, letting it go, until I’m so much dirt in a hillside somewhere. Don’t talk to me about the Circle of Life, or reincarnation, or heaven. Perhaps I’m fated to be one of those bitter ghosts who won’t go on, who won’t let go of this plane. But maybe I won’t have a choice.
No wonder I wake up screaming. Perhaps it’s only surprising I don’t do so more often.
I hadn’t fallen completely into sleep, yet. I was just there, hovering. It was 3am; I should have been tired and safely past the point of thinking, but there’s a nasty, perverse creature in my brain that waits, waits, waits til I’m weak and off-guard to strike out at me. And out of nowhere, it’s the same old terror, pulling me up onto my knees in the dark, screaming "NO!" into my teeth until I shoved my face into the pillow just to shut myself up.
I’ve had these terrors since I was a child. Since I was five years old, and I asked my Daddy if he believed in Heaven, and instead of the comforting lie, I got the stark, "no." It’s always the same thing. It’s such a human thing. I’m afraid of dying.
I don’t mean that I’m afraid I’m sick now, or my demise is somehow imminent. I mean to live a long life if G-d will let me, and barring any earthly stupidity. But my vision of death is a great presence, waiting there in the distance, absolutely unavoidable, like the blade at the end of the cattle chute.
I don’t fear pain. I don’t fear the sickness. It’s the utter loss of myself. It’s the thought that the battles I’ve fought so hard to make myself, bone by bone and fiber by fiber and drop of blood by drop, will, in the end, be swept away like the destruction of one of those great colourful sand mandalas.
Such works are, I know, meant to be enjoyed in the creation, with the knowledge that they’re only temporary, that they’ll be gone as soon as they’re complete. But I’m not bright grains on the floor. When I die, what will happen to my experiences?
What about the first novel I wrote, when I was eight, based on that book about the animals left after a great flood? I wrote it on my Dad’s ancient typewriter, sitting in his chair at the dinner table. What about that rush of joy as I ran into my grade school library for the book sale, dollars clutched in my fist, almost overcome with the knowledge I could buy and keep any book there? What about the moment I looked up while brushing my hair behind the booth in Sarasota and saw him standing there, taking my picture, and wondered why? Or the moment I hugged him, late that night, sweaty from dancing and drumming around the fire in the sand, and thought I’d never see him again? What about the moment I got his letter, and the first date? And the night I sat on the side of the bed, staring out over the city, dead inside because I knew what he was going to tell me in the morning?
What will happen to the first time I heard Over the Rhine, with tears sliding down my face at "Poughkeepsie"? What happens to the memories of my mother’s roses in a bowl in the dining room? What happens to the way I loved Tom, the butcher, who died while I was in England, and my parents didn’t tell me because they knew how it would upset me? What happens to the first time I saw myself in my new green gown and almost didn’t know who I was? The echo of the scream as I threw myself across the board with my own broadsword and felt it bite deeply into his? The rabbit I embroidered? The feeling the first time I understood how to draw what I saw, not what I thought I saw? To draw in actuals, not symbols? What happens to the way I stare at sunsets in Bermuda, stars in Lancaster?
What happens to the roil of emotions that afternoon I crawled out to the couch, confused and alone, and cried, and cried, and cried, and the way I know to this day he doesn’t—can’t—understand why?
What happens to the way I spin the rack once the balls are perfectly aligned on the baize, the way Patrick taught me? Or the way I cry every time I hear Tchaikovsky’s pas de deux from Nutcracker? What happens to the way I love roses? What happens to the memories of my parents that no one else has? The way our house smelled in Spring, the way the light used to come down the stairs before the den went up?
Who will remember Kayli, Jenny, Marvin, Patrick, Tom, Glenn, even John, the way I do? Who will remember the way I looked at them?
It always used to be Kayli I called to, hugged fiercely while I whimpered into her fur. She didn’t know why I was upset, she didn’t ask for an explanation. She just flopped beside me on the bed and kept me company while I fought it down. Clue’s too young, still. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, and it distresses her—she’s only ten months old, after all. I can’t explain it to her, and it’s not just the language barrier: I don’t understand the fear, either.
Part of it is the terrible, terrible fear of being alone. Not alone as in how empty my bed is now. Alone in the way that all of us are separate, unable, in the end, to truly touch. That we will all live and die ultimately alone, even surrounded by family and lovers. We first feel it not so long after we separate ourselves from our parents: no one understands me! I’ve been this way for years—no one has ever really understood me. Hell, I don’t even understand me: I’m deeply old-fashioned, yet a bleeding-heart liberal and Goth. Sometimes I run on two different paths and come around a corner only to crash into myself. But I know what I know, and I hold tight to some things; I’m cynical and jaded, I don’t believe love lasts, and I have a terrifying violent streak no one sees, but I believe in love, and equality, and tolerance, and peace, and I will do almost anything for my ideals.
I lost everything I had in inside in my teens: every bit of comfort and normalcy. And I rebuilt myself like so many of us do: I’ve spent the last fifteen years—longer—working on who I am and what that means. And I have, G-d willing, many more years to refine that. So is it any wonder I wake up screaming when that little voice in my head says, "Well, yeah, but what’s the point? I’ll swallow it all in the end."
The stillness, and the blackness terrify me, and it doesn’t matter that I won’t actually know them. Maybe. Perhaps I will. Who knows?
But I’m a control freak, and I can’t stand not knowing. Neither can I stand giving it all up, letting it go, until I’m so much dirt in a hillside somewhere. Don’t talk to me about the Circle of Life, or reincarnation, or heaven. Perhaps I’m fated to be one of those bitter ghosts who won’t go on, who won’t let go of this plane. But maybe I won’t have a choice.
No wonder I wake up screaming. Perhaps it’s only surprising I don’t do so more often.
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Ahem. Check Check.
Date: 2004-01-31 12:32 am (UTC)WEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL....
They ain't makin's Jews like Jesus anymore.
They ain't making carpenter who knows what nails is for...
SMILE DAMMNIT!
*Hugs*
Ok, so I originally wrote this to Ysoie's email directly...
Date: 2004-01-31 04:28 am (UTC)Have I mentioned how impressed I am with your ability to elucidate your
feelings? I can write books on what I *think*, but I always feel like I
lack the vocabulary to describe how I *feel*, and so I'm awed by your
lucidity here.
And I guess that's not really the sort of reply you might have been hoping for, hmm?
Wish I knew what to say to offer comfort... but I guess I don't know
enough about your own internal beliefs to speak to them respectfully.
I guess I can only say that mine are fundamentally different, but not in
the traditional Christian way... our Christian friends would be appalled,
I'm sure, if I got into details with them. :)
I've mentioned elsewhere that I think all those life-scenes (like the ones you've described) show up in some grand movie you kick back and watch with G-d at the end of your life: just you and Him, no one else. Wind up in the seat next to Him, with your feet up, and laugh, cry, cringe, cheer,
munch popcorn. This life's relevant and vital and educational and
important, but essentially personal and transient...
And then I think we put the documentary on the shelf and move on to
something else. There's too much to us humans that *isn't* flesh and
blood and bone for me to be comfortable thinking we just go 'poof' when
that flesh fails.
Someone quipped somewhere that we're 'souls with bodies, not bodies with
souls.' I agree. I lug this skin around with me here, but it's not who
I am... it's just packaging for a while.
I may sound bonkers. Maybe I am. Maybe it's all a nice lie I've told
myself. But I believe it, kinda like I will happily state that I believe
the sky is blue. The sky isn't actually truly blue: it appears blue b/c
we have these amazing cells that make up retinas that help our intricate
brains read wavelengths of reflected light energy as colors, and the
wavelengths that filter through the atmosphere, or bounce off it as
reflection, and are affected by the content of the atmosphere, and the
angle at which we're viewing it and sometimes appear a brilliantly
gorgeous shade of blue... etc etc. I get the science. I love facts.
I also, personally, have trouble with the idea that those facts all just
happened by chance. For me, personally, that'd be a bigger leap of faith
than believing it was intended this way.
And so there ya go... if it was intended this way, with the great
complexity and entanglement that we have here in this universe, on this
planet, in these bodies... why wouldn't there be some as-yet-unrevealed
provision for the bits of us that -aren't- made of flesh and blood?
(cont.)
Date: 2004-01-31 04:29 am (UTC)I worried (not actively, but persistantly, in a buzzing-fly sort of way),
in my mid-20s, about what would happen to Ben when I died. I think I
really fully expected to be zapped off out of this life, possibly b/c I
was somewhat unintentionally living life on some accelerated timeline
(married w/kid at 18, divorced at 23, career at 25...)
Now, I feel like I dodged whatever bullet was headed my way, and now it's
all just a big gift; every second is time I didn't think I'd have.
Like you, I hope to eek out as much time here as I can, but when it's time
for me to go, I'm ok with that... I'm just wildly curious about what's
next. I worry about dying 'cause I'm a big wimp about pain and I hate to
think of my family mourning me... but I don't feel any stress at all about
actually being dead, I guess.
Oh, and no, I don't much believe in that 'heaven' thing, either. The
whole idea of pearly gates and St Peter and endless happiness sounds
entirely too boring to be true; I think whatever's next will be as mixed
and challenging and lovely as this is... only utterly and completely
different. Oh, and it better damn well include some explanations about
some things about this planet, or someone's going to have one irate soul
on their hands! ;)
So much more to it, but I'm not sure I'm saying anything of use to you,
although I'd like to. I feel for your fears; it's a very scary picture
you paint, and I can see why you lose sleep, and I'm sorry that's the
case.
Here's a genuine question (borne of my lack of knowledge about Judaism?)
that may unfortunately sound unintentionally flippant: if your faith
doesn't help you sleep at night, what good IS it? What IS your G-d for?
Why're we here?
Less of a control freak than a curiousity freak, myself...
Anita