Death 1-5

Calming the storm with digital effects

Some memories seep into my brain cells, hang from an invisible thread, and it swings like a pendulum, in and out of my consciousness. These memories are just a whisper of words, pictures, smells, and emotions. Sometimes, I don't realize its significance, until much later. Without explanation, it appears in my daydreams, in my nightmares, and in my idle thoughts. The events don’t change: but day becomes night, sunlight turns into glaring spotlights, and tenderness becomes anger. I’m still unable to understand why my memory shifts like sand in the Sahara Desert: why sometimes it’s tender and at times it’s fearful. I still don’t know the answer.

Sometimes these memories are remembered viscerally. They are not remembered with the brain, but with my emotions, physically through my body. It’s not the kind of memory that you observe from afar: it’s the kind of memory that you live through again and again. As if your soul has not gone past this event: but rather, is stuck in a film that repeats without end. This is not the kind of memory you try to recall, it just invades you at its own will and its own desire.

The weather is perfect so far: it’s not too hot for summer. The roof is flat, so when it gets too hot, the whole house burns, imitating the passion within its walls. Yet, today is a beautiful day. It’s a perfect lazy day for pleasant daydreams and napping in the shade. The absence of my father seduces the rest of us to relax and rest. It also persuades me to stay home. There’s no need to escape today. I wander to the sliding doors where the cool breeze sleepily wanders inside and I lie on the tile floor. For a little while, I live inside my fantasy world of daydreams, until a pleasant nap coaxes me to sleep. When I awake, the perfect weather has traveled elsewhere. The hot air has clung to the roof and the heat in the house glistens on my nose. Yet, it’s not the weather making me uncomfortable.

In front of me, a large, ornate television is turned on and my mother is softly crying in front of it. It’s not that I haven’t seen her cry before; I’ve seen it plenty of times. This time, the mood was different. It was not the usual crying session. This time, the only sign of crying, are her hands moving across her cheeks. Something’s not making sense. First of all, my father was not home. As far as I could see, which was the entire living area; there are no empty bottles of wine. My father has not returned. Then why is my mother crying? Very cautiously, I look around; looking for my siblings. From where I sit, I can see that they are taking a nap in the bedroom. They are not the cause for this outburst. Which makes sense; I have never seen my siblings bring tears to my mother’s eyes. I only wondered if they had gotten hurt: which obviously, was not the case.

Very quietly, I get up and walk closer to my mother. Fearful of being too loud, I stop at intervals; like a cat, stalking its prey. But she doesn’t notice me. That’s when I notice the movie. It’s very quiet and somber. A man is walking down a paved path, but everything around him is astonishingly white. He sits down and stares into space. His pale colored eyes look painfully sad. I reach my mother and sit to her right side: to avoid blocking her light. She doesn’t look towards me or make any other acknowledgement. She stares at the man on the screen, her eyes still glistening.

It seems to take forever, but at commercial break, I ask, “Mami, why is the man so sad?”

“His novia died.”

“Why did his girlfriend die?”

“She was sick.”

“Why was she sick?”

My mother keeps staring at the television, speaking to no one in particular. She still looks sad and tearful. “She had too many white blood cells.”

“Mami, isn’t blood red?”

“Yes, but inside your body, you have white and red blood. If you have too much white blood, then you die.”

I still don’t understand how blood can be white, when it’s always red. I look at my mother and wonder if she can answer more questions. “Mami, where did she go? Will she come back?”

“No. Dying is like sleeping, but it’s forever.”

“Does that mean she won’t wake up?”

“No, no va a volver.”

“Does she know that she’s sleeping?”

“No, she doesn’t know she’s sleeping. She doesn’t think or hurt anymore. Nothing can hurt her anymore.”

My mother looked lost in thought. Something told me to stop. My time limit was up. I watched my mom for a little while, trying to understand the things she had said. The movie started again and there was still white stuff all over the ground. I found it fascinating. What was it? Does it happen when we die? The white stuff made everything look beautiful and clean. This scenery, the sad man, the woman who died, death, sleeping, and white blankets: they all seemed to go together.

It occurred to me that death is beautiful. It seemed so romantic to die and sleep forever. The beauty of relieving the hurts, the constancy of safety, and the peace of sleep. Once dead, people are kind, thoughtful, and loving. People cry for you, stand all around you, and in blankets of white, you are laid to rest in a perfect bed. Everything in my vision of death seemed more romantic than life! No more pain, no more burdens, no more responsibilities. In death, you are at peace all the time. “I want to die.” It’s so logical, so romantic, and so beautiful! "I wish I could die."

I got up, walked to my bedroom, and sat next to my brother and sister. They were sleeping soundly on the top of our makeshift blanket-bed on the floor. They looked so peaceful, so beautiful. Death would be this peaceful, without anxieties, forever. I moved the blanket off my brother, who looked hot, and brushed my sister’s hair off her face. I found a newspaper and started to fan them, thoughtlessly.

Death is so fascinating! I wonder how someone gets sick enough to die. I looked back at my siblings. Would you die from getting too hot? Would fire kill you? No, that would not be romantic. Maybe if I drink lots of milk, my blood would turn white and I would die romantically, like the woman in the movie. Even in death, she looked so beautiful! Could I ever be that beautiful? What if I don’t look pretty when I die? My eyes wandered back to my sister. She’s definitely beautiful. She would die beautifully. It’s too bad our eyes close when we die. Her eyes are so pretty. I guess that would not be good for her. Then I look at my handsome brother. He’s so brave. He would cry for us. If we died first, he would sit quietly on a blanket of white and think of us, like the man in the movie. No. We couldn’t leave him. He would get too lonely. Who would play with him? What if I died first? What if I die first? Slowly, my imagination began to play with this idea. Visions of white blankets, ribbons, and beds appeared before my eyes. Just like a movie about to play on the screen, my mind left the real world into a world of visions; where everything was possible. Last night's traumatic drama and today's heat was causing more drowsiness, leading to sleep.

I was wearing a silky, white gown, with pink, billowy bows. I lay in a princess bed with gold emblems and pink bows decorating my pillow and blanket. I also wore matching shoes, white gloves, and a pink bow was tied around my hair. I looked like a doll; an expensive princess doll. Someone has even added rosy lipstick to my childish lips. Observing myself from an upper vantage point, I decide I look beautiful and royal. Death gives me beauty and royalty.

Everyone knows that I’m dead. It’s time for them to come and visit me. My Aunts from my neighborhood come to visit, bearing gifts and flowers. I met most of them, when my brother and I traversed the neighborhood terrain. My boy friend, Enrique visits with wildflowers that he has picked himself. Everyone teases us and accuses us of being novios, but I guess he’ll have to find another friend. Even my unkind friend, who stole all my toys, has come to visit. Secretly, I’m glad that she's envious of my beautiful clothes and bed. Surprised, I see her older sister, who kidnapped and got me in trouble once.

I look around and see that my parents start to cry. My father is desperately trying to hide a few tears in his eyes. He doesn’t believe in emotional weakness. After a few minutes, he disappears with his friends, most likely to drink his courage. My mother sobs loudly and the women lead her to the other bedroom to console her. Enrique’s mom whisks her son away, afraid her son will be tainted. My unkind friend and her sister are finished eating and leave. Nobody's left in the room. I'm all alone. I didn’t realize that death is lonely. But it doesn't feel bad, instead I feel relieved. My heavy responsibilities have been lifted and I no longer have to feel scared, anxious, sad, or tired. Being alone is peaceful after all.

I had been enjoying my relief and my happiness, when I hear soft sobs coming from the floor. Now that my siblings are alone, they sit glued side by side and feel free to cry. No one has noticed them, so low to the floor. They look devastated and abandoned. No one bothered to look after them, too lost on their own mourning.

In the beginning, I had forgotten about them. I guess I assumed someone would take care of them. Of course, that’s what’s expected. Now I see how they have been abandoned. Their sorrowful figures cause me to regret dying. I want to console them and tell them everything will be all right. I reach out to them, but I can’t move. I try to open my mouth, but I can’t speak. It seems that my mind has left my body and I longer have control. From my location above, I’m unable to give life to my lifeless body. So I can see, but I can’t touch, I can’t speak. I can’t do anything to console their pain.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be romantic and beautiful. It was supposed to be my escape, but now I feel trapped. I didn’t know it would hurt them. I didn’t know they would get abandoned. I take it back! I don’t want to die! I need to talk to them! “I love you!” “I didn’t mean to forget you.” “I’m so sorry!” “I’m so sorry.”

I try to wake up, but I realize it’s a black dream. I’m half awake and I can see the room, but I still can’t move. My body fills with panic and terror. STOP! This is just a dream! I have to force this nightmare to end! I have to use my willpower. STOP! It’s just a nightmare! It’s just a nightmare. STOP! If only I was stronger, then I could stop this terror! If only I could make my body move! STOP! If I could just force my eyes to open, then I could break the spell. Then the blackness won’t overpower me. Stop! Please! Please help me! I didn’t mean it. I won’t do it again. I promise.

Then it comes. Floods of tears start to pour out of my eyes. It finally breaks the spell and I can sit up. I bite my hand, in an attempt to redirect emotions, but it’s too late. There’s nowhere to go. My mother will see me if I go out and if I stay here; I’ll wake up the kids. So I hop over to the wooden closets; I climb in, shut the door, stuff some clothing into my mouth, and let myself cry. All the withheld tears come flowing out: all the silences, the controls, and the forbidden feelings. I try to be inaudible, unreal. I don’t want to wake them; they can’t see me cry. My tears come out like shards of glass, attacking my poor siblings. So, in the darkness, alone but relieved, the sorrows of a five year old are finally released.

After some time, the flow of tears stop. Though I’m exhausted and drained, I feel better. It’s usually better when I cry. If I don’t cry, then I wake up anxious and terrified. This increased anxiety can lead to repeated night terrors, increasing the anxiety more, leading to worse night terrors, and a full onslaught of panic attacks. I use whatever is handy and wipe my face. I take deep breaths, open the door, and stare face to face with my brother and sister. I didn’t escape notice. They look frightened and anxious. Without hesitation, I smile, but they’re not that easy. “I’m okay. I just hurt myself, but now I’m better. How about I tell you a story?”

My sister relaxes a little and sits down, but my brother looks suspiciously at me. I keep smiling, hopping around, and softly singing. My 2½ year old sister is delighted and smiles. I pick up her up, she fits like a glove, and we go to our little corner; where it feels safer. My 4-year-old brother follows, but I could tell he was not convinced; his intuitiveness was sharper than mine.

When we settle down, I begin with a familiar phrasing, “Long ago, in a land far away”. These little words enkindle my imagination and a fanciful, mythical story is born without effort. These stories take us to faraway lands, kings, princes, princesses, castles, and monsters. Soon my brother is engulfed in the story and forgets about the incident, but only for a little while. My brother has photographic memory, an unfortunate skill in an unsettling home.

This has become my distraction tactic; telling a fantastically engaging story. We didn’t have any toys. What little my uncle gave us, my little friend stole; which I realized when I saw them in her large toy box. My mother responded by extolling the virtues of giving. So I learned to tell enthralling stories instead. If my siblings weren’t hooked, I would increase the intensity or change the story, until they were living inside the story. Enchanted by my own story, I’d be distracted too. The tactic worked for everybody. At that time, it was our only source of escape from the real horrors of living.

Although this storm was over, it was only the first time and certainly not the last time. Death and dying becomes a constant fantasy of comfort: my escape, my relief, my choice, and my friend. A painless existence was too irresistible, too wonderful. Choosing death makes sense: it demonstrates my independence, it lavishes me with the power of solace, and it honors me with the power of freedom. If only I could be free of this existence, free from being powerless.

However, it took some time before death would flourish as my companion. This incident started the journey, but I was still afraid. I was afraid to cause more suffering for my siblings; fearful that no one would take care of them. What if they decide to take their own lives, following my example? Somewhere deep inside, I knew that causing my own death was probably immoral. I’m not sure why, but I felt it in my heart, in my conscience. It was probably the realization that although I wanted to die, I didn’t want them to die.

Initially, death started as a fascination and as an expression of my dark feelings. I was attracted to its rebellious nature. It was the expression of my anger, though I didn’t understand it. Whenever the stresses of my life overflowed into madness, I would furiously imagine my death as a punishment to my parents. Feeling satisfaction in its ability to turn the tables and leave my parents helpless.

Often, the helpless faces of my siblings would prevent my demise; for I loved them the most, even above my own soul. I don’t know how this strong love of my siblings got entrenched my heart, but when death conjured before me, my love for them and my guilt for leaving them, kept me alive. It still does.

Through the years, my fascination with death would take many forms. In my daydreams, I would die in every conceivable fashion I could imagine. These death scenes would get more elaborate, full of a variety of characters, a variety of settings, and a variety of reasons. I began to idealize the reasons for death: dying for your loved one, dying to save the world, dying for financial reasons, and so much more. I also convinced myself that I was not afraid of death. This meant I could be a daredevil. I jumped off two story buildings, climbed anything I could reach, and wandered far outside my neighborhood. Disappointingly, no matter what I did, I never got hurt. My poor brother would follow me around, afraid that something would happen to me.

Thinking about death became a normal part of life. I didn’t realize that death had become a large part of my life. From the age of 5 to 14, I don’t really remember thinking that I was depressed. At that time, death was not the result of sadness; it was the result of anger. In my family, anger was the sole property of my father. Sadness was my mother’s property. I wasn't allowed to have those forbidden feelings. So I simply replaced my anger with death. I’m sure sadness affected my anger, but I didn’t know that then.

At the age of 15, death became my friend. It was the first time that I desired to actively kill myself. Until then, death happened for “honorable reasons”. However at this turning point, I didn’t care for the reasons. I just wanted to die. I actively made plans, looked around for weapons, and wrote suicide letters. At its climatic point, I was ready to proceed with action, but a spiritual encounter changed my plans.

At that time, I didn’t know why I was so determined to die. In fact, I would not know for another 15 years. The dark secret is hidden in a crevice in my brain, a place that I’m unable to access. But this dark event is the start of my suicidal journey. Death was no longer an entity apart; it was a part of my personality, my soul. For the next 21 years, suicide became a constant possibility. Sometimes the possibility would be at critical levels and sometimes it was hidden among responsibilities. But the possibility is never gone completely. It’s just waiting, to come to surface again.