Day Twenty-nine

I'm not really a masochist, but when I'm not in the middle of some mind-engaging activity I sit and think about pain.

Sometimes I force it upon myself in some bizaare attempt at contrast. This happens when everything's marshmallow and chocolate but I'm moping around like a sadmonkey. And it never really works.

Other times it creeps into my mind and makes me uneasy. I'm not sure if it's a good idea to be thinking too deep into any psychological quirks because my head is a dark little place I should never venture into alone, but I never listen to my own advice anyway.

Jez knows I get mini panic-attacks at often random times and for little reason. Death haunts me. Ever since I was a little kid I've been terrified of the notion that everyone will die at the end of their life. My mum has convinced me, when I was ten years old, that they'll soon invent immortality pills. Now there's something more dangerous than believing in the tooth fairy.

I sometimes wonder, half amused and half anxious, whether I'll end up in a padded cell one day when these irrational fears get out of hand. Apart from acceptance (working on it!) there are no other solutions. I don't mean to offend but religious faith to me is pretty much on the same level as Santa Claus and Easter Bunny, and the idea of chomping on antipsychotics makes me feel weak.

Other times I think of Jez. Or myself. I can't even tell us apart anymore. I'm happy now, but memories of the worst of it are still picking on me. It's hard to say whether, if it happens again, I'll be less hurt because I'm already numb, or I'll be more hurt realising how much pain and effort had gone to waste. Stronger or more fragile? Who the hell knows.

If I'm so afraid of death, what does it say about someone if I would die for them?