The one companion I always have, through loneliness and joy, though hot and cold, though everything, is death.
Christine wondered why I didn’t take better care of my panda bear, the stuffed friend I have had since I was a baby. Wasn’t that what comforted me at night?
No. I was comforted by a pink ribbon, off the edge of a blanket bought for my stillborn sister a few years before. I kept a piece of that pink ribbon with me, tattered and frayed, until there was no more to hold, partly due to wear and partly due to my mother taking pieces away so I wouldn’t suck my bent index finger and hold onto that frilled satin.
And when that ribbon was gone, and I knew my fate was sealed, well, I got a new companion. I made peace with death. Death was what was required, and she was with me always, reminding me that my needs & desires weren’t important, that I had to learn to kill them down so I could survive in the world.
Death is my friend, the only one I could really trust. However lonely I was, however much I hurt, however much I was too intense, too big for the room, as long as I could die, I could make it through. Dissociation was my ally, denial my comfort, death my friend.
It still is today, of course. Cold and lonely, I can’t look to others to warm me up, to see me and value me. I can, though, look to death to numb the pain, freeze drying the intense feelings into dessicated words on a page, processing my emotions into ashes and my desires into dust.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, me to death, amen.
When I was 18, Chip told me that I was good at failure, and that unless I broke the cycle, all I had to look forward to was bigger and bigger failures. He was right, of course.
Death is my consort, and she lives in me.
While the spark of renewal, the glimmer of rebirth may always be there, it is death that is my constant companion.
Death helps me and comforts me, and has from the first moments that I was aware of having to live in the world.
How can I ask anyone else to understand and embrace the death that lives in my heart? How can they engage me, how can they love me, unless they have made peace with death?
Death is my life.
Death is my death.