The Loop Continues to Infinity

Mortality is a very frightening concept. I can recall when the philosophical construct of death and dying took hold of me and grabbed me tightly. I was six years old and even though I had known of the word death and its definition, the impact of its fortitude on life was not yet clear to my childish mind. I cannot even recall a trigger for this event, this bloom of awareness deep within both my soul and in my spirit. Perhaps there was no trigger. I cannot recall. Yet, I can still feel the utter terror and panic that gripped my body, I can relive the flavor of that fear, that realization. The notion that all that I knew and all that I love would end.

I locked myself into the upstairs bathroom in the old house and wailed and wailed, the giant, salty tears rolling into my open mouth. The gasping I felt as I tried to breath between the long stretches of wailing caused me to choke and cough. My cries were heard through the house and everyone came to the door to help, but I had locked it. The strength of the realization of death was so powerful that I am fairly certain I lost a sense of how to answer or communicate with my family, for all of them tried to talk with me and have me open that door and come out. Or at least tell them what was happening. But I could not. I could only cry and sob, and wail and dissolve myself within that emotion of fear and horror. There was no use, no purpose to anything. Death is all we have and all that we end up with.

Finally, after some stretch of time (I asked my father once, he said it was perhaps 3-4 minutes) that seemed eternal, my father used a screwdriver and a nail to unlock the bathroom door and my family all came in and surrounded me, fear in their eyes and questions on their lips. My mother scooped me in her arms, my father placed the palm of his hand under my chin and lifted my face towards his. They both questioned me about what was wrong, what had happened, was I hurt?

I could not answer them. I could not tell them what it was I had discovered. It would hurt them like it had hurt me. I could never reveal what it was I had discovered. And to keep it inside and to feel as if I were the gatekeeper of this knowledge made me feel more than overwhelmed and the sorrow felt as if it would never dissipate. I am not sure at what level I was thinking at the time, but I only knew that I could not tell them, my parents, my siblings, that I knew and understood the inevitable trek we are on to death. It is not that I presumed they were unaware of the impending demise themselves, but more that I did not want to hurt them further by having them know I too now carried that horrid and heavy yoke of knowledge with me. I did not want them to feel that added burden knowing that I knew.

It took roughly two hours for me to calm down and fall asleep for a nap. Although everyone kept asking me, I could not tell them what occurred. And I never did tell them or anyone what it was that happened that day. This is the first time I have revealed what it was that occurred. The sheer terror I felt, the despair I felt about all in life, because I had somehow put the details together in my mind and truly knew and understood the inevitability of death.. My religious faith has been a comfort for me over the years, yet that horrid grip of knowledge still is there, lurking in my mind, too available, yet properly available for me to explore at any moment. The various dances I take at times to avoid that mental loop are quite elaborate, and yet, the awareness of it being there never escapes me.

Konrad