After I was dead...

After I was dead, time lost all meaning and a great veil of boredom threatened to suffocate me.  This wasn't at all what I expected.  I suppose things might have been different if I had left behind children or a grieving husband, but being a loner meant that my funeral was attended mostly by those who felt it their duty to be there.  Perhaps to ensure that I really was dead and gone.  Who knows?  They didn't care to be there and I didn't care to see them there.

After the mostly dull and uninspiring eulogy by whatever clergy member the funeral home was able to rustle up on short notice, the visitors (one can hardly call them mourners if they barely noticed I was gone) gratefully dispersed, returning to their humdrum lives and leaving me in limbo.

Funny how being alone never bothered me when I was alive.  I suppose then it was a means of escape from people I had no wish to interact with, but now that the loneliness was enforced and permanent, I found myself unreasonably annoyed by it.  Of course, there were other ghosts around, but most seemed busy watching over their families or haunting the dreams of those who wronged them, gleefully reporting the details of the nightmares they inspired as they returned from their exploits.  Frankly, I was as uninterested in joining them in their escapades as I had been in joining my coworkers for a Friday night pub crawl.

The ability to be anywhere at will was at first intriguing.  I went in and out of random people's houses, regardless of whether they were home or not, but that soon lost its novelty.  There are only so many scenes of harried domesticity that one can witness without getting bored.  Then I took to going in and out of high security buildings, art galleries, backrooms of stores I liked - visiting all those places I'd never gotten a chance to see in real life.  The local hospital was interesting for a while, but it was always crowded with ghosts coming and going and the constant noise and activity grew tiresome.  

Eventually I took to spending my nights in my favorite bookstore, floating up near the ceiling tiles and supervising the closing procedures of the staff.  Some evenings I even snuck into the storage room, but the utter chaos of it annoyed me and somehow devalued the experience.  I would have loved to rearrange some things and reorganize the shelves, especially the ones where books were piled haphazardly, causing pages to crease and lose the lustre of newness.  I couldn't, though.  Ghosts can't touch or move things.  Well, it figures, doesn't it?  Nothing is solid to us, otherwise how would we get through walls?  

Anyway, there I was, hovering near the bestsellers stand, bored out of my mind and seriously wondering whether I should join some of the others in their nightly haunts of the local abandoned quarry when the light in the children's section went on.  Near closing time the lights are always going on and off and doors are slamming, but it was near two in the morning. There was just no good reason for anyone to be in the store, well, other than me, that is.  Staying near the walls (I never did get over the unreasonable dislike of having my back exposed, which is especially ironic considering how I ended up dying) I floated over to the children's section.  At first, it looked like there was no one there, but then I saw her.  Sitting cross-legged on the little storytime stage, hair falling into her face and almost touching the book in her lap.  At first I thought she was reading, but then I realized that she was drawing.  She had one of those How to Draw Anything books in her lap and the pencil in her hand was flying over the blank page on the right as she occasionally referred to the instructions on the left.  

I moved above her to see better but her head was still in the way.  It was almost like she was intent on hiding what she was doing from the light.  Sighing to myself, I floated down until I was right in front of her and craned my head to the side.  She had already finished a picture of a large, leafy tree and was now working on what looked like a...  well, not a person, that's for sure, maybe a bear? sitting under the tree.  I moved to the other side to see better and that's when it happened...

"Stop looking, it's not finished yet.  And anyway, don't you know it's not polite to spy on people?" she said, looking straight at me.

On the perils of sensitivity

"You are too sensitive" isn't a phrase that I hear often.  In fact, it's not a phrase I've heard applied to me in years.  Frankly, most of the people who met me over the last decade and have not known me prior to that will laugh at the thought of such a phrase being aimed at me.  "Tough as nails", "determined", "single-minded", "coldly rational", and yes, even "hard-hearted" are the more likely epithets.  

And sure, I won't deny it, I am or I can be all of those things.  Those descriptions are my shell, my way of masking and hiding the crippling sensitivity that I've spent years beating down and suppressing.  And I've succeeded... Oh, how I've succeeded.  My reward for this act of supreme willpower and self-training is that unless I actively try to, I feel absolutely nothing.  

Well, that's not strictly true - I feel fear, anger, anxiety, frustration, and physical discomforts.  Those were never an issue, never something I tried to suppress and so they remained (mostly) untouched.  I've learned to conceal them when appropriate, but that's just part of growing older and hopefully wiser.  What I don't feel is the things that most other people take for granted - sadness, grief, happiness, joy, need.  In grinding to a halt the roller-coaster that I couldn't control, I ended up suspended in the air, neither up nor down.

It's not that I'm incapable of feeling these emotions, I just have to consciously allow myself to experience them.  Well, what's wrong with that? you might say...  I didn't think there was anything wrong with it.  Not at first, not for years as I've worked on building this wall.  It was a slow process and an inconsistent one.  Life would get in the way and tear giant holes in the barricade, but I'm nothing if not determined so on and on I soldiered.  When I could retreat behind the wall at will and it held, I rejoiced.  If you've ever had the dubious pleasure of listening to a blaring car alarm through the night, then you know the utter bliss when the siren is replaced with blessed silence.  At first you don't believe that it's actually over and you keep a wary ear out for the alarm's bleating to restart, but then after a few minutes of silence your shoulders unhunch and you take a deep breath and you convince yourself that yes, it's finally over.  It was a bit like that.

Muting the emotions that I couldn't control was a high like no other I had experienced to that point.  And then a further revelation that the barricade held.  No matter what life threw at me, I could retreat behind the wall and weather it.  It was blissful, except I wouldn't let myself get too excited over it; no chinks in the wall. 

But you know this doesn't have a happy ending...  I wouldn't bother writing about it if it did.  Single-mindedness comes with a price.  The fatal flaw in my plan was not leaving an escape hatch.  Feeling nothing is great when you need to be cold and clinical and analytical in your approach to a problem.  It's not so good when you're a human being instead of a robot.  Instead of learning how to temper and manage my emotions and prevent them from overrunning me, I imprisoned them with no way out.  I wasn't the one behind the wall, my emotions were and I was left on the outside, cold and feeling nothing.

So, what now?  Well, I have two options, neither one of which I like much.  The safer approach would be to accept that this is how it is.  I can continue to live life at low volume, enjoying the calm and trying not to dwell on what I'm missing.  Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad life.  It's calm and restful and probably a lot more stable than it would otherwise be.  It's also like living wrapped in layers of cotton.

The other option is to loosen the restraints and see what happens.  Let myself feel without reservations or holding back.  How bad can it be?  Unspeakably bad, actually.  As bad as it was before I did all this work to fix myself.  Knowing what I know of my past struggles, this isn't an option that I'm eager to pick and yet is it worth a try? 

What's holding me back from deciding on a course of action is not knowing the answer to this question...  Can I learn to control my emotions a little at a time or will all my work of the last decade come crumbling down taking me with it?

Imperative

Move.  I know you don't want to, but you must.  Move.  Now.  Just a small step first.  Turn your head on the pillow to take your eyes off the grubby ceiling and face the window.  You know it's there, on your left even if you have yet to see it.  But you'll do it today.  Yes, you will.  Because I'm telling you to and because you know that I won't leave you alone, no matter how much you want me to.  I'm in your head and I'm not going anywhere.  Move.

No, don't close your eyes, you can't shut me out.  The light from the window is getting stronger, turn toward it now and you'll still have a chance to see it before clouds roll in.  Now, yes, you can do it.  Don't think about it, that's been your problem all along.  Don't analyze, don't predict, don't assume what you'll see, just turn your head and face the window.

Blink.  Again.  No, don't start crying, that won't help.  It won't help at all.  Blink again and focus on the light.  Don't say it, I lied.  It's not a window, it's just a day glow simulator lamp, but look at it anyway.  Admit it, the view is better than the ceiling.  Fine, you don't have to admit it to me, but at least acknowledge to yourself, if not to me, that it was worth the effort.

Shift your gaze further to the left, look at the nightstand.  You don't know what's on it so don't argue that there's no point.  Arguing is another problem, but we'll get to it later.  Look at the nightstand.  Focus on the glass of water.  No, of course it's not real glass, but it's real water.  Reach for it.

Stop laughing, it's not impossible.  Reach for it.  Lift your hand off the blanket and reach for it.  No, I'm not going to give you a break, we've barely started and I've been so very patient with you already.  Lift your hand and reach for the glass.

Why?  So you can knock it down to the floor, of course.  Imagine it.  Imagine your hand doing it.  Imagine the feel of your fingers against the plastic, the slight resistance you'll feel when you start pushing it off the surface.  Use the anger you feel at being fooled into thinking it's glass.  You're angry now that you know it's just warmish plastic instead of cool glass, aren't you?  Don't lie to me, I know you are; your nostrils are flaring.  Let that anger pulse toward your fingertips as you shove the glass that isn't away from you.  Imagine the sound it'll make bouncing off the linoleum tiles, maybe even cracking if you push it hard enough.

There now, that wasn't too hard, was it?  Don't answer that.  And now we wait...

The crash

The sound of the crash echoing off the concrete and boarded up windows could be heard for blocks.  The smoke wafting away from the debris of what used to be a hatchback sedan shrouded the scene of devastation as if waiting for a magician's sleight of hand to uncover something out of nothing.

Where there previously towered a half-demolished wall of a derelict convenience store, now stood a grotesque surrealistic sculpture - mangled remains of the hatchback in the protective embrace of the crumbling bricks and rebars.

"Whoa," someone exclaimed, as the echoes of the crash and the settling rubble gave way to the normal sounds of a street, "did you see that?"

"Hey, someone call 911!"

"Can we get closer?  Is it safe?"

"Do you think the driver...?"

"What the fuck happened?"

The commotion was reaching fever pitch, it'll be time to go soon.  Fingering the small black remote nestling in my pocket, I listened to the questions swirling around and answered each silently in my head...

Yep, saw that.  

Hardly any rush to call 911 now, but if you must...

You can get closer but that wall isn't looking too good.  And touching the car or any of the rubble is definitely a bad idea.

Yes, pretty sure Max is dead; although pulverized would be more accurate.

That's easy - the car sped up going down the street, lost its breaks and steering and was directed straight into the wall.  Splat.

Isn't it amazing what can be done with technology and a bit of determination these days?  And Max said I could never finish anything...