Frailty, thy name is human

on the fear of human mortality

I once asked a friend if he’s ever scared that he will accidentally kill someone. He said no. That was interesting to me because this is what consumes my thoughts 70% of the time. The fear of killing. Someone. Yourself. If you think about it, it’s really easy to kill. Humans are delicate–soft skin, fragile bones, breakable hearts. Stab someone and they will bleed to death. Hit someone with a high-impact object on the head and you’ll strike them dead. Casually toss some rat poison in their food and they will consume it blindly and never open their eyes again.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to kill anyone. But I can’t stop thinking about how frail we are. I am terrified that I’ll accidentally kill. And sometimes I think about what I would do afterwards–hide the body? Clean my DNA like how they show in the movies? I don’t think I would make the effort to do all that. My guilt wouldn’t let me. I guess I’ll just wait to die too.

Maybe I’m strange in this way. But I’ve always known that the world is a cruel place. When I was younger and went on walks with my father at night, I always imagined a scenario in which someone would try to kill us. And always tried to make out an attack strategy and an escape route. What if two men on a bike appeared with a gun? What if a man suddenly covers my eyes and mouth from behind while my dad is distracted? Funnily, in every scenario it would always be a man. I was in grade 9 when I started carrying a pair of scissors with me. I would take them everywhere, always in my pocket. They were my weapon. Against someone who might try to kill me. But I would always just end up hurting myself instead.

Whenever I hear a noise, even if I am in my house, I instantly start scanning the room for the most high-impact object I can use to strike someone with. I don’t look for sharp things because I don’t want to kill anyone, just knock them out. But just in case, I keep my options open. I am desperate to survive.

Perhaps I’m just terrified of human mortality.

I was 14 when I had a dream in which I died. It was like a prophecy. In the dream it was my 16th birthday and I was in a car on my way to meet my friends. But suddenly death announced itself. Out of nowhere. Like it usually does. I became terrified of turning 16. And I stopped sleeping in the car. Maybe this is why I think nobody is a good driver.

I turned 16 and survived.

I had another dream about dying a week ago. I hadn’t had one since last time. It was a car again. But this time, I could get out, but didn’t.

I woke up with a thumping heart.

Death is petrifying but also so easy.

I was 12 when I wanted to kill myself. Looking back it feels silly. I want to say I was being overdramatic but I also still feel the pain 12 year-old me did back then. So for her I won’t say it was silly. Just glad she survived.

I find myself writing and thinking a lot about death. Perhaps it mystifies me. The act of it. The agency of it. I wonder if killing yourself is a sin because god gets mad that you take some control from him. God. I met him in my dream too once. 4 years ago–the same one in which I died. I asked him if I was going to heaven or hell. He said it depends on whether I get my shit together. Well I guess we know the answer then.

Death feels accessible. It always feels like an option you can avail. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll kill myself on accident. I don’t want to die but it’s just so easy. It’s right there looking at me. Waiting for me. And sometimes the offer is enticing. But I care more about living. And until my life begins, I will try to survive.