As I sat inside that church, during one of the lowest points of my life, I felt the vibration of the multiple drums going through my body, even though the sound of those instruments was muffled and unclear. Bolero, with its increasing intensity, was playing through my noise cancelling headphones, blocking any attempts of sounds to penetrate from outside. I gazed into the grandiosity of that atrium, the paths taken by the shockwaves caused by those instruments, how it went around the curves made of concrete, and made its way back to move me whilst it failed to make itself heard. Suddenly, something else hit me: I suppose I have a thing for killing.
That is a bold statement, so before you plant multiple red flags all over me, embody Lady Gaga screaming "KILLAH" and dial whatever 3 (or more) digit number the police uses wherever you are, let me expand and clarify this. I don't mean literally killing someone, the physical act of taking someone's life. In fact, one of my fundamental beliefs is that a life should never be taken from someone else intentionally. I fully appreciate that death is a fact, a certainty, a part of being alive. But I should make this as clear as I can: I am fundamentally and unequivocally against any kind of murder - even those on the dance floor. Sure, there is a philosophical argument to whether one animal killing another as part of the food chain is a type of murder, but this is the topic for another kind of discussion, one I am not delving into here. There is also a further aspect to this conversation, related to one's right to decide when to end their own life, but that too is not a topic for today.
My point here should nevertheless leave no doubt: I don't have a thing for literal murder. But I am certainly attracted to the idea of metaphorical death - which, not by coincidence, is the starting point of this blog, if you can remember. And when it comes to metaphorical death, I am a true believer that intention is not only normal, but often necessary. Especially when it comes to one's own metaphorical death. In fact, there is a lot of symbolism associated with death being a reset, and I suggest you read about it further if you're interested, but again this would be another kind of discussion, one that once again I am not going into here.
As I will be revisiting a conversation about death, even the metaphorical type, I would also like to add to the record that I appreciate this can be a sensitive and triggering topic to someone who might read it, and I apologise if at any point I say something that triggers or offends you somehow. This space is for me to explore my feelings and things I put here are not about anyone else, they are about me. The things I write are not facts and not necessarily the truth, they are just how I feel. If you think that something here is out of place, please reach out and talk to me about it. I always appreciate honesty, as long as it comes from a place of care. And I should also add, for the sake of not repeating myself incessantly, that anytime I mention death or killing or murder, from now on and unless told otherwise, I mean metaphorically. This is key, so please remember it.
I have killed myself a few times, intentionally or not. In fact, a long time ago, in a blog far far away, I wrote about a metaphorical suicide, where I jumped out of the balcony of a high rise whilst Bolero also played in the background, and the final notes synchronised perfectly with me hitting the metaphorical floor. I was unhappy with how things were going, and I wanted a way out. I wanted a new start. Little did I know that new starts would become a recurring theme in my life.
Killing people is often the easiest solution. Out of sight, out of mind, out of heart. Worked for me, I got my new start. But I have also killed others in the past - many, in fact. I can easily think, right off the top of my head, about a handful of people who are dead to me now by my own choice. Even if they are still physically alive and kicking somewhere in the world. Actually, I'd say especially if they are still alive. After all, if they are not alive, they would be dead to everyone, not only to me. And we are gonna get there, when death changes from metaphorical to real, but for now, I digress.
It's not easily done though, despite it being the easy way out. At least not for me. Killing someone is a long and well thought process for me, one that is only used as a last resort. I only decide that someone is not part of my world anymore when there is really nothing else to be done. When our relationship exhausted all possible possibilities. When it's truly game over. Because once someone is dead to me, they will not come back, at least not in the same form, shape or intensity that they did before. I don't believe in life after death, metaphorically or not.
The mourning process is equally long - maybe even longer, and maybe it never ends. Despite knowing that it was necessary to let someone go, I still feel the hole they left in my life with them gone. That hole will never close, the wound will never heal completely. Even if the pain stops, the scar will be there to remind me that this was once occupied by someone. Someone who's not coming back.
I still, to this day, mourn and miss people whom I killed. I still wish they were around. I know that I don't want them to be around, that there is no space for them in my life anymore. I know that I did the right thing. But a part of me wishes things have transpired differently. That we wouldn't have gotten here. I appreciate that we all had something to contribute to this, and knowing that this was not an unilateral decision can be comforting. Even if I was the one who decided to carry on the execution, all the parts involved contributed to this decision being made.
I cannot deny that it is somewhat comforting to know that most of these people are still around, and that reviving them would be, in theory, simple. In reality, that would depend on many factors - the first of them would be me. As I mentioned, these decisions are usually final for me. No going back. But even if I would change my ways, this doesn’t depend solely on me. There is a real chance that the person does not want to go back into my life, and that I might not be able to do anything to change that. And yet, despite being aware of all this, there is something soothing about knowing that this is not forever. Until it is.
It hasn’t happened often, in fact until recently I can only remember one occasion where someone who was metaphorically dead to me died in real life. It was a weird feeling. I felt strangely hurt, but not in a personal way. A sort of melancholy for the world, for the people who cared about that person, for the way things went. I also felt glad to have met that person, even though at the end of their time in this life we were not in each other’s lives anymore. But ultimately, I felt awkward for having feelings related to it, almost as in an impostor syndrome kind of way. This was definitely not about me, so why were my feelings asking me to acknowledge them?
Then, a few weeks ago, it happened again. But this time, it was deeper and more meaningful. Someone from my own family, with my own DNA, and with whom I had a very complicated relationship since I was a kid. He never did anything to me physically, but since very early on he shaped my relationship with men. He shaped my relationship with trust. My relationship with acceptance. And my relationship with the person I wanted to be. Or, in this case, the person I did not want to be. Because I have always seen his influence in my life as a negative one.
It wasn’t until a few months ago that I started to realise that I might have been too harsh on my judgment of him. I saw things with the eye of someone who had been punched, but I never tried to look at what led to him punching me so much. Far from me to try to justify his toxic behaviour, but I at least needed to recognise that there was a reason for it. Nobody is born toxic. Something shaped his behaviour, and I should at least take this into account when I try to understand why things happened the way they did. I always asked “why did he do this to me”, but maybe I should have also asked “why did he do that to someone”.
It would not have made it right or better, but it might have made more sense to me. Back then, I did not have the emotional maturity to consider his side. I am now older than he was when it all started, and I can understand that life is more complex than right or wrong. I can take in consideration things that were not so obvious to me back then. Most importantly, I can accept that the way he acted had much more to do with him than it did with me. That it was not my fault, and that I was not wrong.
We have not been in touch for the last 20 years, so when I heard that he would go into a serious medical procedure, it felt to me like I was reading in the news about someone in a distant country going through something challenging. I wished this other human being the best of luck, but it did not really make much impact in my life. He had become a stranger, one that I had considered dead for many many years already.
Then I heard that there had been complications, and that he was essentially gone, but his body was still holding on. And I felt sad, again as I would for a stranger, because I don’t think anyone deserves to live like a vegetable. In his case, it was not a matter of whether he would ever be back. Of course, in biology nothing is 100% certain, but that possibility was statistically inexistent. And when my parents told me that he died - a real, non-metaphorical death - it felt strange to feel empty about it. It felt strange not to hurt when someone from my own bloodline left this world. I wasn’t happy that he was finally gone - something I feared could have been the case. But I wasn’t sad either. I was nothing.
I never really intended to talk to him ever again, so there is no remorse that we didn’t have a chance to mend our relationship. It was never in the cards, and I made peace with it a long time ago. But there is still a lot of work to be done on myself, to mend my relationship with the issues I accumulated from my interactions with many people, including him. It's a work in progress.
This work started a long time ago, in many different ways - writing being one of them. Recently, I discovered a new unexplored avenue: plants. Not the kinds one would keep in one's living room or garden, but I'd rather not go into too much more detail about it here. In essence, the plants opened my mind to new possibilities, including unlocking parts of my mind which were, up until then, inaccessible to me on a conscious level. In one of those voyages deep inside my mind, he made an appearance. A brief one, he didn't stick around for too long. In fact, he was just a side character, one whom we've all forgotten his name a few pages after he goes away.
Here's the interesting bit: maybe this is my mind being kind, but I saw then, for the first time, humanity in him. I saw vulnerability. Most importantly, I saw past the monster I made him to be. And although I can’t tell you for sure, I think I started the process of forgiving him. But that is also a work in progress.
This little trip down memory lane happened before his real death, and I am somewhat glad. Not that he died in real life, I wouldn't wish that to my worst enemy. But I am glad that he was still present in this world when I met him in my thoughts. I don’t owe anyone any explanation about why, when or how I do things, but it feels more genuine to me to have done this solely for my own piece of mind, and not out of guilt following his passing.
Ever since this experience - which involved a lot more memories of people from my childhood - I feel like I have a better grasp on the things that happened before it all went sour. The dark cloud created by the bad stuff now started to dissipate. Don’t get me wrong, I will never forgive him completely. But I can now remember that things were once good between us. I can see that things might not have been easy for him, and that even if what he did was wrong, there was probably a reason for him to act the way he did. If nothing else, it reminds me that people are more than just good or bad. It doesn't make what he did right, but it helps me heal. And that's what matters most to me.
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