REDRUM – in the dreams of the child, in the reflections of the mirrors of The Shining. Frightening, because it has not yet been understood, felt – but not yet consciously articulated. But Danny is shining and his knowledge will light up too, only this time, at the end of the tunnel, there is dark light. I don’t shine, I’m not a Sunday child. But I still dream of REDRUM – in other forms, with other fears.
In a book by Irvin D. Yalom, I read about a man who stopped sleeping at night. He was stricken by an unnamed anxiety. So, before sleep, he started masturbating and recalled to his therapist the throbbing erections he would experience. This became his only guarantee of a good night’s sleep. So strong was the unconscious fear of death. A little death before the little death. The triad of Thanatos, Hypnos, and Eros. Meanwhile, I dream erotic dreams – precisely in this period when I am most afflicted by the horror of our future extinction, our present temporality. The more I am afraid of death, the more intense my dreams are, and the more I throb from excitement.
Seven years ago, my emotional health took a negative turn. Like the protagonist of Yalom’s book, I couldn’t sleep, eat, take care of my child, or otherwise function properly. I would wake from unexplained bouts of existential horror, and panic attacks would repeat every half hour. Now I think it was a long-negated, unconscious fear of death. Existential shock therapy from myself. Because today, after years of therapy, my breath sometimes still hitches from the horror. Only now, in that painful second, I realise that I am mortal, that one day, nothing will remain of me. The subconscious, obscure fear proved not to be an abstract fact indicating that “everyone will leave this world” but the realisation that I myself am that temporary being.
Several times I saw death’s lights, that all-consuming abyss of the universe from Stephen King’s novels. Both times I was on vacation. Almost sailing into the open ocean in the Seychelles and almost stepping on a huge snake in the jungles of Sri Lanka. The ocean could have swallowed me, the snake could have injected poison into me.
Everything ended on a happy note, and then I was the mother of a little child, and in me and around, there was life, abundant life and impulse, no more nightmares and fear. Only then did everything drop on me with three times the force, which is usually the case.
Now, at the age of 36, I am deathly scared of death. Maybe because of the feeling that I am only just starting to try to live. The hunger for life is so strong that I often negotiate with higher forces – wait until one more contest’s results, until one more of my son’s competitions, until one more trip. No, I don’t have any clear “indications” for my death. However, I am still very afraid, and existential anxiety often threatens to snatch away the beauty of the rest of my life.
I like to walk in the woods in the morning. However, I’m afraid of not returning from the forest every time. A dense forest of death, a thick tangle of illogicality and irrationality darkening the daring adventure of life. There are days when I really want to shut it back in the snuff box. And then I read a new dystopian novel by Yaroslav Melnyk, May There Always Be Me. Smart scientists led by AI have almost succeeded in creating immortality. The protagonist of the book has lived for more than a thousand years. The genre of the novel in itself presupposes that such an idea of eternal life and its realisation can mask an immeasurable darkness. I recognise that greed for eternity on this side, one which often takes strongly perverse forms. Sometimes I am so afraid of death that I even wait for it to come. If I have to spend all my time in fear, can that Great Barbarian just finally enter the city? If the anxiety is so strong that it hijacks seconds, minutes, and hours, then maybe faster, or sooner is better. Less frightening? Less torturous? Sometimes I feel so strongly in myself those two sisters in Melancholia – when one figure has mastered the self, the time will come for the other to manifest itself. Between surrender and resistance. Between responsibility for the whole world and letting go. Between the little death and the great death. I feel like quoting Otto Rank:
“Some refuse the loan of life to avoid the debt of death”
(Staring at the Sun, p. 109).
Perhaps it is also possible to talk about belief in reincarnation, resurrection to eternal life, and other essential things. Unfortunately, I’m still Doubting Thomas, I just can’t see the wounds, no matter how hard I try. I know Christ is trying too. I understand that the essence is internal perception, but there are stubborn blind ones, they need proof, miracles, human speech learned by animals in one night, and wine at weddings. I fail to stay awake for all the time allotted to me, the light is fading, and my oil doesn’t burn hot enough. However, there is another way – to turn towards the beyond. Yalom turns to Epicurus and finds some kind of consolation in several ideas from this philosopher.
For example, he points out that the soul is mortal. Therefore, we have nothing to fear in the afterlife and the suffering of transcendence. I don’t know if Doubting Thomas is comforted by such a postulate. This part of the personality prefers several other thoughts – symmetry and ripples.
With the feeling of death comes the great question of meaning. Is life worth living? Albert Camus. It is absurd that we are born; it is absurd that we die. Jean-Paul Sartre. What matters is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment. Viktor Frankl. And Yalom’s “ripple theory”: every life can have a positive impact on the lives of future generations – comforting, supporting, and transmitting something important.
I have noticed that when I think of death, I consider certain taboos. I usually don’t accept the idea that my son is also mortal. When parents bury their children, not only does the one that they (possibly) loved most disappear, but also a large part of the ripples are gone – the meaning, persistence, and continuity of life. Therefore, when my son climbs over rocks, or when we go on a trip, I protect him the best that I can. A healthy child is the essential constant of being. However, even though I am somewhat denying the mortality of my child, at the age of only five, he asked me: “Mom, are you going to die too? Will Daddy and I die? I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to die.” His primary school teacher shared an excerpt from my son’s essay: “I would like my family to live forever.” The beginning of understanding the laws of the world. And then? Then they begin to flirt with death – horror films, dangerous tricks, and intoxicating substances. From horror stories by the bonfire to digital realities where they can die several times and rise again. A little death before the great death.
We travelled over the November holidays. I walked along the narrow streets of Venice and still thought of REDRUM. The lights of death. And the magical rites that can help to overcome evil. About the disappearance of Giltinė (Death) from Lithuanian folk fairy tales. Now I deliberately choose to release death from the snuff box. Because every living creature must obey the laws created for its form.
However, some part of me hopes that my son will live forever and that the wish from his childhood writings will be fulfilled. Maybe, as in Melnyk’s novel, I don’t want what’s best for my child. Is it enough that from my and my son’s lives, there will be plenty of ripples, as described by Yalom, which will spread down to several or a dozen generations into the future?
I dare to take the loan of life, this adventure, and anxiously pay the debt of death. Between the little death and little death – the great death.
ABOUT THE BLOGGER
LINA BUIVIDAVIČIŪTĖ
Lina Buividavičiūtė was born on May 14, 1986. She is a poet and literary critic. Lina is an author of two poetry books in Lithuanian language.Aside from "Matter", "Masters", and “Proverse poetry prize" contest anthologies, her poetry is published in the following magazines: Drunk Monkeys, Beyond Words, The Dewdrop, The Limit Experience Magazine, Poet's Choice, HOW, Beyond Queer Words, Maudlin House Press, Cathexis Northwest Press, and Versopolis Review.Upcoming publications will appear in New Millennium Writings, Cathexis Northwest Press, Quillkeepers Press, The Stardust Review and Beyond Words Literary Magazine.
TRANSLATOR'S BIO
GABRIELLA ŽIČKIENÉ
Gabriella Žičkienė is a translator and editor born and raised in the United States, and currently living in Lithuania. With over a decade of experience, her work covers a wide range of texts, with a focus on ethnic culture and literature. Passionate about bridging cultural gaps through language, Gabriella brings diverse voices to new audiences through her translations and editorial work.
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