Monday, October 31, 2016

Death Letters, Part Two: Fear Itself


Dear reader,
Merry Samhain and Happy Halloween. This is one of my favorite days of the year and it always makes me contemplate fear. I had a lot of it growing up as a child - the fear of strangers, fear of the ocean, fear of the dark, and (my most paralyzing and panic-inducing) the fear of being lost. Later on, after early childhood, it evolved. The fear of the dark and the ocean stayed but in place of the others, there were new fears: the fear of fire, fear of clowns, and an acute fear of ghosts and demons (and other things unseen that my paranoia exaggerated).

After a particular traumatizing series of events including physical abuse, self harm, suicide attempts, side effects of medication (that gave me mood swings, disconnection with reality, memory gaps, sleepwalking episodes, and horrifying nightmares that blurred with reality often), I decided that it was better to be feared than be afraid.

To keep from being afraid, I knew I would have to learn to become fear itself. When you are the dark, you will no longer succumb to the terror of what it holds...

Athazagoraphobia: The Lonely Child
Growing up, I was left on my own a lot. Not in a neglectful sense (at first) where a parent might leave a child all alone at home, but in the sense that I was left to my own devices. My father was always out to sea with the Navy (and when he came back, he was neglectful), my brother wanted nothing to do with me when he wasn't in school (unless it was to bully or torture me mentally), and my mother (suffering from cancer unbeknownst to us) had a hard time keeping up day to day. She did her best, but since I was always such a quiet and introverted child, she usually left me on my own to do workbooks or play or read. Naturally, this left me with a fear of being left behind by my family, forgotten and lost. I was always quite clingy in public because I was sure that my family didn't care about me. If they went too long without looking at me, they would forget that I existed and would simply leave me behind forever.
"...[T]he fear of being forgotten can arise in childhood if the individual has been left alone or has been ignored for a long time. Many sufferers of this phobia report feeling 'inconsequential or unsubstantial' due to the feelings they undergo when left alone.
[...]
Often, such people are inherently introverted, depressed or tend to lack the ability to interact normally in society. They are, by nature, shy and passive. At the same time, it is difficult for the person as s/he undergoes deep turmoil thinking repeatedly of 'simply fading into oblivion'." FearOf.net
This fear may have persisted if not for witnessing my brother grow into a more and more troublesome person. Once my parents divorced, my father cut himself out of our lives, and all of my mother's energy and attention went into my brother. He was rather difficult - violent, verbally abusive, occasionally disappearing for days at a time to various friends' houses without warning; more than once he was on missing posters because of this. I was pushed to the side yet again, this time neglected and regarded with impatience and anger (due to the tempers my brother left in his wake); I would often go without eating a meal or two because no one was paying attention. Sometimes whole days passed where my family never spoke to me or looked at me, busy yelling at each other and escalating occasionally to violence. I was singled out in school because I was brilliant and gifted, but didn't speak much. Often I would get flustered at the sudden attention or doubtful of myself even if I was right, so I would answer incorrectly. This led to ridicule by teachers and classmates in varying degrees and bullying later (which only continued until I was twelve, thankfully). I learned to like being alone and often wished I would be lost so I could find a new life without anyone else. Attention became a negative thing and to this day, I prefer to watch and be behind the curtain.

The center of attention is a dreadful place to be.

Achluophobia: Darkness in My Head
Nothing is so complex to me as my relationship with the dark. I am nocturnal. The night is my home. The stars are friends and the moon is all the light I need. In the night, I am more creative and awake than ever in my life. More alive. But the darkness, the blackness that suffocates and is completely void of light... That is what terrifies me. A child may be afraid of the dark because they imagine monsters, but when you get older, you realize that monsters are real. Perhaps not in the sense that you once imagined, but in more terrifying forms. Murderers, corpses of loved ones who have passed, and the own demons in your head.

As a child in Washington and Indiana, my imagination was highly developed far beyond most adults, and traumas I'd seen and heard, strangely horrifying nightmares corrupted it. My imaginary friends weren't always nice. They started out that way, friendly grown-ups or children my age that mostly wanted to tell me secrets or watch me. But they quickly took on the qualities of bullies, my older brother, my father... Anyone who made me feel sad or angry, scared, or like I didn't want to exist anymore. Whenever this happened, I tried to stop talking to them and make up new friends. The old friends were never happy and would make the new ones "go away." When I finally moved to sunny Florida at the age of (about) five or six, it all stopped (only to come back later when moving to Alabama at age eight). Once I hit the age of ten, I no longer had imaginary friends or anything of the sort. But the feelings they gave me back then always remained, always at night or when I was alone. I would be trying to sleep or play quietly in my room and I would suddenly feel sad, lethargic, paranoid - as if I was being watched. If I tried to ignore it long enough, I would end up feeling dizzy and nauseated with an accelerated heart rate. (At one point in my teenage years, I spaced out only to find that I'd been laying on the floor and staring at the wall for nine hours. I promptly threw up.) This usually resulted in my fainting. But being alone in bed at night, this went unnoticed. And when someone came to check on me if I was playing, they would assume I'd fallen asleep.

I would go on to get a reputation for sleeping a lot.

Fear Becomes You, My Dear
Looking out my window at the falling leaves and the dry, brown grass I think about what this holiday means to me. I used to relish the chance to dress as a princess or angel - someone loved and adored. Then my view of the world soured and my desires changed. It quickly became not about the candy and games, but about the different masks I could adopt. Even though I was quite young, I wanted to become more and more terrifying things. Halloween was the chance to be someone braver than I was, someone who ran with her fears instead of from them. I was just as frightening as them, so they could not scare me. And being as frightening as them allowed me to know them as I knew myself, to become like them and be stronger for it.

Samhain is the time to unify myself. It's was, and is, spiritual to me. I've since gotten control of the strange discomfort and the paranoia that came over me when I was alone for too long. I can now spend time comfortably alone... With my little black cat. I've transformed bit by bit, and this time of year gradually took on new meaning. As I crossed into adulthood and left home at eighteen, it became about connecting with external and internal fears, becoming one with the unknown and often unseen, facing my mortality and honoring the dead, honoring myself, and embracing the darkness inside me - because whether I like it or not, the darkness and fear, the twisted nightmares and corrupted imagination... It's part of me. There is no night without day, and I am not complete without this aspect.
"I expected my shadow and l would join together like drops of water..." Hook
That's why I've become so "morbid," as normal people say. That's why I think and speak about things that other people cringe away from. I am learning to tame the darkness within me, learning to join with my fears so that I will never have to be afraid again.

In this world where only the strongest and most cunning survive,
it is better to be feared than be afraid.

Merry Samhain.
- An INFJ

Thursday, October 20, 2016

The Death Letters, Part One: The Problem with Heaven

Dear reader,
Do you ever think about death? I do. All the time. I think about how I'll die and what I want to happen with my corpse. I think about if I'll be able to hang around a bit after death or if I have to move on. I wonder what I'll see. Other dead people? Creatures? Sparks of light and energy? I wonder if my cat will be able to see me. Will I be another thing she stares at and follows around a room, freaking everyone out?

And the people. Who will outlive me? Which friends? My spouse? My brother, my mother? Will my father outlive me even with his excessive drinking and smoking? Will he grieve for me and all the lost time, or will he be as indifferent as ever? Or will he go to his grave, never once thinking that he outlived his child?

And what happens after all of that? Reincarnation, becoming one with some cosmic force, paradise, punishment, or a vast nothingness - ceasing to exist and having no consciousness?

Paradise isn't all it's cracked up to be.
I have a personal saying: "Eine Geschichte ohne Konflikt hat keine Bedeutung. Ein Leben ohne Kampf hat keinen Zweck." Which, translated for those of you that don't speak German, means "A story without conflict has no meaning. A life without struggle has no purpose." If everything was perfect, it would be boring. Think of it in terms of a movie. Who wants to sit and watch someone succeed in everything, have a comfortable job, and go about their daily lives in monotony with not one bit of conflict? Life is the same way. Sure, it sucks when you get turned down for a promotion or get your heart broken. It's awful when you break a limb or have your car break down. But for all the bad, there is good - and it makes the good that much better. You appreciate it more because you worked for it, you suffered for it, you earned every bit of the goodness through everything you endured.

That's why I have a problem with the notion of Heaven, a paradise where nothing bad happens and we all live happily ever after. I don't want that. That's miserable! Who wants to live a perfect and boring (semblance of a) life for all eternity? Where's the struggle, the motivation? What is there to fight for? Where's the purpose? If you take away struggle and conflict, you have nothing. It's what drives humans: the idea of something better. And you can't get better than perfect.

Paradise is already lost, Milton.
John Milton - author of one of my favorite works, Paradise Lost - believed that you can't have good without evil. And it's true. If evil ceased to exist and you never knew it, how would you know what was good? If you never knew sorrow, how could you know happiness? One cannot exist without the other because they are known only by comparison. Think about it this way, if you were always sick and bedridden, kept company by those who were ailing as well, you'd never know what it was like to be healthy. That would be your "normal" and that's all you would ever know. Healthy wouldn't exist for you.

By that token, a paradise with no pain and suffering, with no burdens or obstacles, with no struggle and nothing to overcome - essentially stripped of those human elements - is no paradise at all.

To live is to suffer.
It sounds bitter and, perhaps, melodramatic but it's true. To suffer is the way of man. It's the human element. We suffer, we struggle, and we overcome or let it consume us. Either way, our suffering - much more than our success - shapes us as people. We are a block of marble. When something impacts us in a negative way, it strikes the marble, removing chunks. It pulls our shape out, our character. It carves out who we are. The storms - the wind and water - smooth out the edges and reveal our form. And the joy? The joy ads the final touches, the moment of triumph, the light shining out from the center of the marble to make it all worth it. But without the suffering, without the adversity, we'd still just be a big block of marble with no meaning, no purpose, and no definition.

I'm not saying our mistakes and the like define us, but it helps us change and become something more. Think of it in this context: which will likely have a bigger impact - eating an ice cream cone, or having a bully push you down and take it from you? Obviously the bully. Maybe you'll fight back. Maybe you'll reason with him. Maybe you'll become a bully yourself. Or perhaps think that it's better he took yours instead of someone else's, and that will set you on the path to be a protector of others.

But the point is that moment will impact you and shape you and give you much more than Suzy Paradise will get sitting on the bench and enjoying her fudge pop.

- An INFJ


Wednesday, October 12, 2016

I'm A Hypocrite

When people tell me their problems - which they always do, even strangers - it's a burden. Sometimes. When they can tell me calmly and without being overly dramatic, I can take it easily.

YES:
I missed my sculpting lesson because my dad had to work and I couldn't go. What if I fall behind? What if I lose my edge and become worse and worse? What if this affects my future? I'm worried.

NO:
My dad had to work and couldn't take me to my sculpting lesson. He doesn't care about me! I hate him and I hate everyone! I'll never be good enough! No one cares what I want! I might as well kill myself!

The overly dramatic types make me sick. Not as in I'm disgusted by them, but as in physically sick. They stress me out and make me tense, and their negativity makes me feel negative. And then comes my depression. And, lately, anxiety. (I'm just a bundle of fucked up shit, aren't I? No, that was rhetorical. Stop nodding.)

In my group sessions, I was told as an empath (and INFJ), people will open up to me because I'm easy to talk to. It's just how I feel. I put people at ease and make them feel like they can tell me anything. And I actually listen. They see that. I give good advice. They feel that. So I find myself attracting all kinds of people. (Lucky me.) Substitute teachers would talk to me about their kids or divorces or what have you during lunch or recess or break. Strangers would gravitate toward me and open up about their whole lives. Even my own father once confessed to me that he was so stressed about the future that he thought about killing himself. (Great parenting, that. But I never expected much from him.) Even my own mother told me things that I really could have gone my whole life without knowing, things that were negative and have been a burden on my life ever since. Things that I carry with me to this day.

So in my group sessions, I was told to stop taking the negative as much as possible. This was triggering my stress, anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts. I was told that to minimize it, I would have to discuss with my friends and family the impact it was having on me and ask them to find other outlets for their problems and negativity. I told my friends in the kindest possible manner to fuck off with their problems and ranting, and just pair up with each other. (Because I'm sweet like that, giving them solutions.)

I tried to make them understand what I lived by my whole life:
  1. You're not a special snowflake; everyone has problems.
  2. Have something negative to say? Keep your mouth SHUT, even if it's about yourself. Negativity begets negativity. What you put out is what you get back.
  3. If it's a burden on you, then it's a burden on others. Say nothing. Better to suffer alone than force others to suffer with you.
So now we come to the hypocrisy of it all. I had an anxiety attack this morning, which made me a bit vulnerable, so I spouted a problem that's been on my mind to a dear friend. She says it doesn't bother her and that she feels like it's her purpose in life to be there for people and help ease their burden.

I think to myself, "This girl is not an empath. She's not an INFJ. I'm really shitty at this, then, because she's better than me."

I can't even take it when people simply say "I'm having a bad day." (YOU'RE having a bad day!? So is Syria! Think about THAT!)

Once upon a time, I felt like that too. I felt my purpose was helping others and protecting them, standing up for what was right even when no one else was, listening to anyone who had something to say... But here I am, a fucked up meatbag, and this person is consoling me? On top of that, I - who's sworn never to burden others (and hasn't 98% of the time through my life), who tells others to talk to someone else - I am blathering my problems and burdening someone else!? Even if she says she doesn't mind, I'm a hypocrite for talking to her about my problems. I just turned around and threw my issues in someone else's lap. How is that right? It isn't. And even though I don't think she'd ever use it against me, I've been very wrong before. That's how I started hating people in the first place. One too many wounds. And I've put myself in the position to be stabbed again.

What is wrong with me!?


But... I'll admit, it was nice having someone to talk to for once. Even if it was wrong to burden them and put out negativity. Even if now they can take that little white flag of surrender and impale me with it.