Shining a Light on Fear

I REMEMBER the day, or rather I remember the moment. The moment when I became aware of the presence of death. The inevitability of that moment, when I would not exist, my thoughts would no longer be. My consciousness would be non-existent. There would be no eyes to look through, no thoughts to feel, no memories to love. It would all be over. Extinguished. I remember the fear that gripped me with that thought. I can't have been older than ten. The fear ripped through me with more power than I would have thought possible. I started to cry. It made no difference. Somewhere inside there was an older voice, an unaffected voice, stating truths I knew could not be denied. The tears came faster, and I battled for breath.

Whether this feeling hits you in a moment or grows on you over time, on some level some part of you will understand and know that fear. When you lose someone, the grief comes with that same inevitability. You cry, and you scream, as loud as you possibly can. You fight it and your hands form fists. But it too cannot be fought. It is necessary, as that solemn voice will tell you. But why does it hurt quite so much? Does it hurt because you won't see them again? Does it hurt because you have realised someday you too will pass on? I wish I had those answers in a clear-cut way. But then I don't. Because I have those answers, as blurred essay-topics in my mind, ideas I could explore. Because I know enough to tell my 10 year old self. No they aren't coming back , yes someday you'll go too. In fact, I knew enough then. When I was five I lost my best friend to death. I saw how her mother grieved and how my own mother's heart broke. Yet it took five years for my mind to grasp that fact. That someday it would happen to me too. And I would not be here to "wipe away all their sad", as I did when I was five.

In an exercise during a Lifeline course, we were asked to close our eyes on this reality and in our heads open them on the scene of our funeral. I remember people shuddering and claiming inability. They couldn't see it because we were all young, and it freaked them out to think of them as they were then, their lives over. I, however, remember a feeling of peace. I stood (or floated) looking down and saw myself at peace in death. It didn't matter that I couldn't see the features. I knew that at that moment, my body was where it was supposed to be, and my spirit was too. That scene has changed over the years. Details have been added. I know what song I want played. "Hallelujah". Not because it's appropriate for a church. But because the music, the sincerity and the depth tell my soul, whenever I hear it, what I would want those people to hear. Let go. Release. Feel.

Death has become a monster, something to be feared, something to be fought. But in truth, who can ever win? That is not to say give up, or go jump off a cliff. It's to say, if we fight it, we give it power with our fear. If we accept it… think how much easier it'll be to say

"Hey, I'm not quite done yet.
Could you give me a little more time?"

You can't beg a favour off someone you've been avoiding your entire life.

The younger we get used to the idea that death truly is a part of life, or perhaps that life is simply a chapter in the novel and death is that blank page between the two; the simpler it all becomes. Do we really want to spend our entire lives fearing for our end? We've no idea what awaits, but maybe no-one comes back because it's just so darn nice where they are? There are no guarantees, and there is a high chance a few spirits will be waking me up tonight just to let me know how wrong I am. But why believe the worst, when we know nothing?

Why remain silent,
when there is so much
comfort to be had
in simply taking away the stigma
that holds us down?

I have that fear still. It does not disappear. But when death has visited your life, and surprisingly enough, you make it through, you'll find your perspective does change. Some things are worth dying for, some things are worth living for. Faith can help you find both. This is a reminder that you're not on your own. Grief and fear are perhaps the two characteristics almost all human beings have in common. It's a different perspective, but one worth trying. The monster under the bed doesn't seem so scary, once you've told your parents it's there. So I thought I'd tell you of my fear, to shine a light on the shadow that waits until many are at their most vulnerable and then whispers again and again that they are truly all alone. To make that shadow flee.

~ ~ ~

DAIRY:
January 4th - 9th, 2009
International Youth Leadership Conference in Prague, Czechoslavakia. Scholarships available.
31st July, 2009 (submissions closing date)
Oxford University Press, The Oxford Award for - School Essay Competition for learners in Grades 11 and 12 whose home language is not english.

Dealing with Death - How To Start A Journal