I’m growing my hairs in. What? Is that not what you came here to read about? Sonja’s latest beauty fashion updates? Bear with me, I didn’t sleep much last night. Yay recovery. In all seriousness, I am allowing the hair on the sides and back of my neck to grow back in…like my normal hairline…nothing crazy…just not something my obsessive compulsiveness has allowed for since.like.ever. It’s driving me crazy. But I am more focused on my heart palpitations. I can feel it racing irregularly fast and maybe even skipping beats, playing hopscotch or something (STOP PLAYING GAMES, HEART! I NEED YOU TO KEEP ME ALIVE! Unless you’re playing four square because I never really played four square and always kind of wanted to give it a shot. So four square is ok. Other than that, please focus all your energy on pumping my blood. Mmkthanks) I’M SERIOUS. I joke about it but I’m also serious. About my heart, not four square.
So I didn’t sleep well, so what do I do when I don’t sleep well? I think about puppies and kittens and rainbows and sunshine and no, I think about death. It happens every time. Brain: “Sonja?” Me: “Yes.” Brain: “Are you sleeping?” Me: “Nope.” Brain: “Ok, cool because I have something I need you to figure out for me. Me: (sigh) “Ok, what is it? I’m not going to be at the top of my game though because I’m really effing tired.” Brain: “Ok, this isn’t a big deal, just something to chew on while you’re trying to fall back to sleep…work on coming to terms with death.” Me: “F you.” The thoughts flood my consciousness and I jolt up in bed, wider awake than ever, letting out a moan befitting an animal that has been caught in a trap. I don’t want to die. Panic ensues, I keep repeating this, “I don’t want to die. OMG, I don’t want to DIEEEE!!!”
I have been terrified of death for as long as I can remember. I have had multiple therapists who have not known how to address this issue which so pointedly controls my life (other than to direct me to literature that addresses it as an existential crisis we all face). And the irony is not lost on me that by looking at how I have lived, you would never know I was so death-phobic. People who don’t want to die don’t generally take 40-60 pills in a day of anything EVER. And they certainly don’t mix alcohol and pills that could be a fatal combination. I said I was going to get honest, get real. This is me doing that. Yikes. Panic about dying, the end, the nothingness, the unknown, it’s at my core. And when I put down the drink, the drug, the food, the obsessive-compulsive habit(s), it’s there. Raw and ready for me to face. Except I’m anything but ready to face it. The crux is that whenever I try to get healthy, my thoughts and fears of dying intensify. Maybe it’s because as my hormones and neurochemistry regulate and I feel happier and more balanced, I have time and care to worry about losing what I have. If I’m screwing everything up (and numbing out), it’s easier to view death as some sort of reprieve and end to the self-inflicted torment. I’m destined to die no matter what, so the obvious goal is to reframe and choose to be positive and fully appreciate and enjoy the wonderful life I have (because I do have a wonderful life…that’s an entirely different post). That way I will have no regrets and be fulfilled and ready to go when my time comes. Right? But wait what? If I love my life, how am I ever going to get to a point where I’m ready to let it all go? Attachment, you are a motherfucker. Haunting me at every turn, step, stage of this game that we are all trying so desperately to win. Well, what if there is no winning? Do we just stop playing? Or do we acknowledge and accept that it is what it is and no one really knows so why waste precious time wondering and fearing?
I have no idea but if I don’t shower now I’m going to be hella late to work.