nolongerinbetween

After she died, for a month or two, I couldn’t look at her pictures. Every time I got a glimpse of her image, from the corner of my eye, it was so painful I thought my chest would explode. Then gradually that pain faded away and I was able to browse through the vast collection of pictures I took of her. I would look at her pictures and videos every night before going to bed with a sort of a religious zeal. Now again, in the last weeks, I find myself incapable of looking at her. The pain of seeing her photos is for some strange reasons once again unbearable. It exceeds the threshold of safety so if I get to see a photo of her somehow I instantly feel the urge to turn away and protect myself. Not that I can escape her image entirely. If I close my eyes, she is always there, in front of my eyes, like painted on my inner eyelids.

*

The thought that there’s nothing left of her, that I will never see her again and that I will never be reunited with her fills me with despair. What’s the point of everything if we cannot secure the most important thing in life? Yes, I am capable of moving on and, in spite of suffering for her loss, of still enjoying life. I can carry on living a good life like I did so far. I can carry on with my interests. I can even buy into the idea that we are here to better ourselves, to learn, to experience and fulfill our potential. I can even try to achieve things people are usually proud of – I could write books, I could set up a movement within the evangelical faith, I could start finding a way to activate the political animal in me and fight our deplorable governments etc. But what’s the point of all that if the only thing that matters is beyond our reach or given to us only for a short while?  We need immortality to validate our struggle. We need immortality to gain relevance. We need immortality to save anything we do from pettiness, no matter how great it is. I cannot do it like most people, in complete blindness, building castles in the air. What’s the point to take life seriously if our love cannot be saved? What’s the point of loving in the first place if I cannot take that love with me in eternity? What’s the point of being saved if I am separated from the ones I love? What’s the point of doing anything if our loved ones are doomed to destruction and nothingness?

*

Magical thinking comes in many shapes and forms. One way is the irrational belief that if you think of something bad it won’t happen. The fact of thinking of it in itself, of considering that terrible outcome will prevent it from happening. Usually when something bad happens to us we are saying “I never thought this could happen to me”. The hardship comes as a total surprise. So if I had thought it could happen to me maybe I would have been spared. The trick then is to anticipate and consider the hardship and so to keep it away. All this magical thinking takes place on a subconscious level. It runs under your conscious radar. You know it’s silly and irrational but that won’t stop you from hoping to alter the course of an event by mere thinking. As if it’s enough to expose and uncover a plot to soften the blow of surprise and spoil its power. As if since you think of it first the gods can no longer throw it at you.

It goes without saying that it doesn’t work. I was always scared that she would develop a cancer of some sort. My fears, my anticipation, my constant thinking of such a terrible outcome didn’t do the trick. It happened regardless. You would think that the ordeal of living in fear of something would be enough. That you won’t have to go through the real thing. But life rejects clear patterns.

By the same token, you might think that once cancer screwed your life one time it won’t happen again. You might think that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. That it would be highly unlikely, let alone cruel, to come across the C-word again in your life. But like I said, life doesn’t follow patterns consistently. Every time you think you discovered a pattern and a rule, life will break free and betray them. Magical thinking falls short again. Lightning does strike twice in the same spot. If you don’t believe me ask CS Lewis. His life was shattered to pieces when his mum died of cancer when he was nine years old. You would think that the trauma of losing the person he loved the most at such an early age due to cancer won’t strike again in the same way. Think again. Fifty years later cancer will shatter his life once more, taking away his beloved wife. The dice our gods use must be loaded and tampered with. No wonder it was only then when his faith got on the brink of erosion. When something hits you hard you are not shielded from a second blow. You would think that if you are already down you would be given a respite. But there’s no safe place from the cruelty of life, gods and people. When you are down and wounded expect nothing from mortals and immortals altogether. I should know better.

*

I feel like talking about her all the time. It’s as if the love for her is so overwhelming that it needs an outlet. This is one of the reasons I share my ramblings. I’m like an overflowing well that cannot be contained. I feel like stopping people on the street and tell them how beautiful she was and how blessed I was to have her in my life. I feel like cutting any discussion I have short and start talking about her instead. To hell with everything else. But I know it’s an impulse I need to control and that I cannot impose on people with personal things that cannot be easily passed on. In grief you go off to a solitary place that cannot be shared with everybody.

*

Today her name took off into outer space. Her name was written on a plate that will be carried hundreds of millions kilometres away from Earth. A seven month journey to Mars. I hope she will smile from beyond the stars seeing her name landed on the red planet. Maybe we are mere mortals, maybe we are just a speck of dust suspended in a sunbeam for a short while, maybe Keats is right and we are just “names written in the water“. If that is the case, her name on that plate on Mars will survive my death for a few hundred years as a mark in time, as a token of my endless love for her.

*

Even when I was close to God I have to admit that I never got to love Him more than I loved His creatures. Once in a while I came pretty close but never really went to the end with it. If jealousy would be one of His traits He would have all the reasons to strike me down. But I’m sure it’s not the case and He is pleased that at least I got to lose myself completely in the love for them. Maybe one day I will take the big leap. Half the journey is already done.

*

I was always pleased to learn that I share with CS Lewis this fascination with animals. When he was a kid he would spend most of his time in the Animal Land or Boxen, imaginary worlds he created with his brother, inhabited and run by adventurous odd creatures and fantastic talking animals. Since he was a kid until he died he was known as Jack. He hardly used his given name ever. Probably not too many would know or realize that he adopted the name of his dog Jacksie. When he was four years old his dog was killed by a car. He then took the name of his dog Jacksie and he would stubbornly answer to no other name. For the rest of his life. Talk about faithfulness.

*

When it comes to animals, mankind is split in two and is as polarized as ever. Half of humanity doesn’t understand the other half. Half of mankind would tell me bluntly “it’s just a cat” and that my grief is borderline pathological. Even on my side of humanity, the one that is into animals, some people see them as mere companions. They offer them shelter, food, protection and love. But they don’t see them as more than animals. It’s not that the bond they develop with them is somehow weaker. Not necessarily. It can be as strong as possible. But it matters though how you look at them. Taxonomy is important. I’m in a funny position since as a believer (albeit a terrible one) I had to reconcile evolutionism with creation so I ended up having a foot in both camps. I always had a sense of solidarity and brotherhood with them but in the last years it got deeper. To the point I can find humanity guilty of Specism. I do think we are a more evolved species as part of God’s plan but not that this entails we can rule over the other creatures. In this respect my belief and the Christian faith part ways. I could be accused of anthropomorphism, of attributing them humans traits and that I see in them more than I should. But I’m not sure that the criticism would hold. I don’t see them as people. It’s just that I could never ever escape the irrepressible thought, every time she looked at me, that there was SOMEONE in there. That behind those big eyes was not just a mere physical mechanism or a hollow shell. If we call that a person is open to debate. But that there’s somebody in there, in the same way my self is trapped in my body, I’m almost certain.

I don’t believe in reincarnation. But I wish I did and that she would come back as a bird to roam the sky freely and make up for the loss of her legs and for the misery of her end. To see her confined to a fixed place for months and to witness her transition from a playful being to a helpless paralytic was torture and painful beyond words. From the moment she realized she could no longer walk an expression of unmistakable desperation landed on her face that still haunts me to this very day. I hope she is running free now, roaming wild on hills covered in grass and meadows of flowers, exploring new skies and horizons. Heaven may be just a big delusion but one that for now keeps my sanity in check after the nightmare she went through. Run free my poor baby, run free…

*

In some cases of sexual assault the aftermath of a rape is more excruciating than the actual rape. It’s not that the rape in itself is not as worse as it gets it’s just that when rape happens you go numb to some extent, your psyche freezes, your mind shuts down so that you can cope with the horror and the indignity that your loss of freedom represents. But when your senses come back to life, when you reboot and your mental operating system is fully restored then the second lot of horror begins. You start to realize the full extent of what happened. The terrifying ordeal is replayed over and over in your head. Even though is a thing of the past rape is never over. Now you relive the rape at full alertness and the horror of it is presented to your mind in its whole significance.

This two-step process of dealing with a traumatic event is not unique. I find some similarities in the way some people process death and the loss of their loved ones. In many cases when someone close to you dies you go numb, you cannot grasp the extent of what has just happened as if things are not real and you switch to autopilot mode. And then after a while it hits you. You wake up. You get sober. No more sleepwalking. No more inertia. No more oblivion. No more anaesthetic rendered by your defensive psyche. The aftermath of someone’s death can be worse than their actual death impact. When someone has just died you cannot quite feel their absence. Their presence is so overwhelming after all. How can you accept they have disappeared when they are so still there? Your heart and your mind and the place where they lived is so full of them. But then after a couple of weeks their absence gains some weight and it hits you hard. You start to relive their agony and their death at full alertness. The numbness and the mild sedation that the shock rendered when their death took place are no longer there. Now the mourning begins.

While she was dying I didn’t have time to be angry and I didn’t allow myself to be perceptive about my own suffering. Her painful condition was my focus and the only thing that mattered to me. I was there to serve, to nurse her and ease her pain. Now that she has gone I can revisit her suffering and take it all in. Now I can be angry. Now I can rage about not being able to prevent that tumour from growing inside her and ultimately killing her. I can rage about not being able to protect her. I can rage about her final degradation. If at the time of her death everything seemed foggy and surreal to me, as if I was in a heavy dream and my pain somehow muddled, now in the aftermath of her death I am fully awake and alert. The rape of her agony and death can be carried out in my head with no anaesthetic.

*

I’m not a morbid person despite my obsession over death. For decades I even couldn’t look at a dead body and I dreaded the thought of needing to attend a funeral. I don’t find death attractive. I am not drawn to death, to its mystery. I have no goth propensity. But the idea that we are mortal and that we are all actually DYING with every second that passes, fully ignoring the fact, was a constant obsession since I was a teenager. We live our life based on a psychological delusion, that we carry on forever, oblivious to death and to the disconcerting truth that we are mortal creatures. There’s a defensive mechanism right in the center of our conscience that makes us fully ignore this unbearable truth so that we can carry on living. As far as I am concerned this layer of protection never existed. The veil is torn and broken. The big elephant in the room exposed. I don’t understand how people go about their lives without thinking of death and living their life AS IF they are immortal. I am at a loss when I see their ruthless ambition, walking over dead bodies, as if those things matter in the least and they will be everlasting. The fact that thinking of death and our mortal condition is a pointless exercise since it doesn’t get you anywhere and doesn’t’ provide answers has some validity but is neither here nor there. At least it gives a better perspective of our life and of what’s really important.

*

When someone you don’t really know that well or who is not that close to you dies you think of their death as something terrible that happened to them. But when someone you love dies this simple perspective changes. You feel that their death happens to you. They are such a big part of your life that it’s something terrible that happens to you. You need to make an effort to overcome your solipsism and think of their death as something independent of you. Whenever I think of her death it takes a bit of effort to adjust my perspective and see it as her tragedy not mine, to feel outraged for her disaster not mine.

*

I don’t believe in a transactional God. The idea that I have to please God, to bribe Him with my deeds and with my acts of kindness as if He is a merchant or a clerk is preposterous to me. One of the reasons why I am a Christian (albeit an unworthy and unorthodox one) is because the concept of Grace breaks the transactional design that sits at the core of any religion. The eternal quid pro quo. In Grace you give and don’t expect anything in return. If you get something back, like gratitude, is great but it’s not necessarily part of the deal. I’m not saying that Christianity is not a transactional religion at all nor that because we are transactional creatures by nature we are evil. I’m saying that Christianity in Grace manages to transcend it. And that’s beautiful.

But if there’s any truth in the traditional imagery of religion with one balance pan gathering the good deeds and the other balance pan the wicked ones I know that, as unworthy as I am, I have at least one thing that I can put there when time will come, without being ashamed: my love for her. I might not have succeeded to love the people I came across the right way (even though I could dispute that) but I surely loved her the right way. I can’t boast about any achievements in my life for I always lacked social ambition  and I couldn’t care less about climbing the social ladder. But if we are in this life to experience love and learn how to love then I have at least one solid achievement: I loved her more than I loved myself. And that’s something. You might be surprised that some people have even less. If it’s not enough to be granted eternal redemption I hope at least that I can qualify for the Purgatory.

Cel mai odios lucru cand ai grija de cineva bolnav de cancer in faza terminala este ca suferinta si degradarea acestuia ajung atat de cumplite incat esti impins pana in punctul grotesc de a-i accepta si dori moartea. Nu ti-o doresti pentru tine, excedat de grija pe care i-o porti sau de oboseala acumulata, ci i-o doresti lui pentru binele lui. Iar sa iti doresti ca cineva iubit sa moara este o contradictie in termeni, este total impotriva naturii tale, o contorsionare psihologica cumplita, un viol sufletesc la care esti supus si din care nu poti iesi decat schilodit. Disonanta cognitiva te impinge in bratele schizofreniei. Sa te rogi zeilor ca cel iubit sa nu moara se inscrie in logica fireasca a lucrurilor. Sa te rogi insa sa moara, sa te rogi pentru moartea copilului tau, a parintelui, a sotului, este dement, stramb, injust, pervers, obscen, degradant, absurd, autodistructiv. Nimeni nu ar trebui sa fie impins pana acolo.

Zile la rand dupa moartea ei am fost nu atat suferind cat furios pentru efectul asta pervers. Ca am fost nevoit sa ii accept resemnat moartea si sa ma rog lui Dumnezeu sa se indure de ea si sa o ia dintre noi. How fucked up is that? She was the light of my life and yet I prayed for her to die. I prayed to God to extinguish that beautiful light. Her death came as a relief, since it ended her misery, but I felt sick to my stomach, cheated, led on, tricked. How can you link death to relief? These two words shouldn’t sit next to each other. Cum sa ajungi sa accepti inacceptabilul? Cum sa ajungi sa accepti moartea celui iubit? In preajma mortii ar trebui sa simtim indignare, suferinta, furie, manie sfanta nu impacare si usurare pentru moartea celui suferind. Moartea ar trebui sa fie limita, ar trebui sa fie cel mai odios lucru care i se poate intampla cuiva. Privelistea agoniei unui muribund insa te invata altceva. There’s something even worse than death – and that is dying. Inveti infrant ca moartea e preferabila agoniei. Esti vaduvit nu numai de copilul iubit ci si de scandalul mortii lui. De furia in fata mortii. Rasufli usurat si impacat. No fit of rage. No temperamental outburst. In sfarsit, a murit. Aleluia. Praise the Lord. How sick is that?

***

Cancer is something of a red-herring, a decoy, a smokescreen, a huge diversion meant to make us focus on suffering and looking after our loved ones and overlook the main culprit – death.

***

Cosmar azi noapte. Ca de obicei urlu in somn ca un lunatic. Se face ca sunt prin casa si ori de cate ori trec pe langa o oglinda surprind in imaginea reflectata o miscare, o umbra intunecata si imi dau seama ca este ea, desi stiu bine ca a murit. Ma intorc si evident nu este acolo. Lipsa de coerenta a oglinzii ma inspaimanta. She’s trapped beyond the mirror. I start screaming unable to reach her.

***

Descoperit o editura interesanta PushMePress care publica studii de filozofie a religiei. Citesc cu nesat “God and Evil” by Tristan Stone. Ajung inevitabil, ca in orice teodicee care se respecta, la nefericitul Iov. Nu pricep povestea acestuia. Ni se spune mereu ca este o poveste dramatica cu happy end. Ca dupa ce i se ia totul – proprietati, sanatate, sotie, copii – odata ce a trecut cu brio testul credintei, viata lui este restaurata cu asupra de masura – bogatie dublata, sanatate si reputatie refacuta, familia upgradata v.2.0. Doar ca morala invatata la cateheza nu da socoteala de unicitatea persoanei. Cum Dumnezeu este restaurata viata lui dupa ce i-ai omorat copiii? Nu inlocuiesti un copil mort cu un altul la schimb. Inlocuiesti o casa, un plug, o caruta, nu un prunc care nu se mai repeta. Poate la Euclid plusul cu minusul face zero, in psihologie insa plusul cu minusul da intotdeauna minus. In viata nu vindeci o rana cu o bucurie, nu vindeci un viol cu o binecuvantare asa cum iubirile impartasite nu le vindeca pe cele neintoarse. Plusurile nu anuleaza minusurile. Zece copii in plus nu o sa te vindece de copilul pierdut. Principiul compensatiei e pentru lucruri nu pentru oameni. Ori imi scapa mie vreun element de exegeza biblica sofisticata ori sunt mai ager decat carturarii teodicisti.

***

Cand cineva drag moare brusc si pe neasteptate socul pe care il ai e mult mai aproape de reactia normala in fata mortii care este oroarea. You are understandably overwhelmed. Cand cineva insa moare incet, in urma unei boli cronice si dupa saptamani sau luni de agonie elementul surpriza nu mai exista. When death eventually happens you feel oddly underwhelmed. Death didn’t just happen. You’ve been grieving over their death already for months.

***

***

Trebuie uneori sa imi amintesc faptul elementar ca moartea ei nu e despre mine. Ca e despre ea. Ca moartea ei este ceva teribil care i s-a intamplat ei. Nu inseamna ca suferinta mea nu este legitima, este normal sa fiu coplesit de agonia prin care a trecut in ultimul an si de moartea ei, dar exista intotdeauna riscul sa fac un shift spre mine, sa ma victimizez si sa ma balacesc intr-o mila de sine dezolanta. Sa ma ratacesc solipsist in drama mea accesorie, pierzand focalizarea de pe ceea ce i s-a intamplat ei si numai ei.

***

Cand moare cineva si trebuie sa strangi sau arunci (huh) din lucrurile acestuia cum poti sa scapi de senzatia cumplita ca faci ceva ofensator? Inca sunt inconjurat de recuzita sfarsitului ei, de siringi, pampersi, medicamente, prosoape etc, litiera e in acelasi loc, desi din cauza paraliziei nu a mai fost folosita oricum in ultimele luni, farfurioarele pentru apa si mancare sunt in acelasi loc. N-am de gand sa transform her whereabouts intr-un mausoleu, nu o sa incremenesc precum nevasta lui Lot intr-un imobilism in care sa las toate lucrurile astea intacte, insa nu stiu cum le poti arunca fara sa ai impresia ca faci ceva nelalocul lui celui care nu mai este. Probabil ca raspunsul e la indemana: cat timp simti asta inseamna ca nu esti inca ready. Mi s-a parut intotdeauna creepy sa intri intr-o casa si sa vezi pantofii celui care a murit de ceva vreme la usa, hainele acestuia inca atarnate prin cuiere, ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic, insa nu stiu daca ideea cealalta de a sterge igienic urmele trecerii cuiva prin lume e mai putin dezolanta.

***

Is she gone? Is she gone? Is she gone? Will I ever be able to forget that heartbreaking question in the morning she died?

***

Sunt zile cand sunt coplesit de puritatea bond-ului pe care l-am avut cu ea, cand, prin contrast, gandindu-ma la calitatea persoanelor perindate prin viata mea, doliul se transforma in mizantropie. Ma uit in jurul meu, printre vecini, printre cunoscuti, pe strada, prin magazine, institutii, biserici, autoritati, tv, social media etc si ma crucesc. Imbecili, egoisti, meschini, impostori, arivisti, lacomi, violenti, tate hraparete, lingai ipocriti, narcisisti, iresponsabili, mincinosi, abuzivi, invidiosi, inculti, duplicitari, oportunisti, infumurati, fiinte pocite, tarate, slutite de absenta oricarui dram de spirit in ei. Ma gandesc la toti ipochimenii pe care i-am lasat sa se apropie de mine in viata asta doar pentru a ma trezi scarbit la capatul insotirii noastre. Am senzatia ca m-am trezit brusc intr-o pictura de Hieronymus Bosch. Ma gandesc la Hristos si nu inteleg cum a putut sa iubeasca asa o sleahta de depravati fara valoare in care chipul lui Dumnezeu de-abia se mai vede. Sa vada tot ce vad eu si totusi sa nu o rupa la fuga mancand pamantul. In momentele astea de mizantropie furibunda ma gandesc la ea si la faptul ca nu m-a dezamagit niciodata. Si visez la o lume in care oamenii nu mai exista, rasi de pe fata pamantului de nu stiu ce virus ucigas si in care sa fiu inconjurat doar de animale. Un animal e egal cu sine si nu dezamageste niciodata, pentru ca e incapabil de tradare. Daca te ucide o face pentru ca este in ADN-ul lui de creatura, nu pentru ca esueaza in impostura. Omul este singurul animal care si-a compromis designul, singurul animal care si-a lasat sufletul sa fie cuprins de coruptie. Prefer oricand compania animalelor decat a depravatilor humanoizi.

***

Diminetile sunt cele mai grele. Cincisprezece ani de coregrafie matinala in care ai fost centrul universului ei nu pot fi sterse doar pentru ca se intampla sa nu mai fie acolo si nu iti mai cauta privirea. It’s hardwired in your soul for good.

***

Mi se spune ca dupa o vreme o sa fie mai bine, ca durerea se va estompa si ca o sa imi treaca. Toate astea mi se spun cu sensul de consolare si imbarbatare in timp ce efectul lor scontat este exact pe dos – sunt realmente ingrozit! Tocmai pentru ca TRECE – imi vine sa strig din toti rarunchii. Tocmai asta ma inspaimanta, ca nu pot opri vindecarea, ca ea deja a inceput. Cum sa gasesc consolare ca o sa ma vindec de ea vreodata? Cum sa ma imbarbateze gandul ca dorul cumplit de ea o sa imi treaca? Problema noastra nu e ca suferim ci ca nu suferim indeajuns, ca nu putem opri tavalugul timpului, ca nu putem opri alinarea pe care o aduce trecerea lui. Nu de suferinta mi-e mie frica ci de nesuferinta, de vindecare. Avem prea multa imunitate si prea putin virus.

***

exista primate carora le lipseste total conceptul de moarte. de sfarsit ireversibil. cand le moare un prunc isi continua existenta ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. ii poarta in continuare cu ei, inerti, fara suflare, ii curata de paraziti, incearca sa ii alapteze, sa ii trezeasca din somn. omul e singurul animal in care constiinta mortii se instaleaza deplin. singurul animal capabil de un negot cu propria finitudine. si totusi masura in care o face este de cele mai multe ori rizibila. insignifianta. suntem protejati de un mecanism de autoconservare care impinge moartea din centrul constiintei in marginea ei. suntem incapabili sa o internalizam cu adevarat. moartea cuiva drag ar trebui sa ne paralizeze, sa ne inghete mecanismele de functionare dar nu reuseste decat sa le incetineasca, sa le gripeze, sa puna un strat de rugina care ingreuneaza temporar mersul lor mecanic, automat. de trei luni de cand a murit traiesc intr-un fel de perplexitate muta. dau tarcoale mortii ei fara incetare si nu pot sa-i cuprind grozavia. mintea mea inca asteapta sa i se explice scandalul absentei. cum e posibila nefiinta. in putinele dati cand inteleg ca a murit, cand inteleg cu adevarat ce inseamna asta mi se taie respiratia, incep sa ma sufoc si hiperventilez ca-ntr-un atac subit de panica. insa de cele mai multe ori ma simt protejat de o forma insidioasa de negare. inca astept sa mi se spuna ca este o farsa si sa o vad sarind dupa coltul unui fotoliu ca in jocurile noastre de-a v-ati ascunselea. inca astept sa-mi intoarca privirea din orice spatiu al casei pe care l-a umplut pana la satietate. ma culc cu ea in gand. ma trezesc cu ea in gand. nu exista celula pe care sa o sectionezi din trupul meu si in care sa nu o regasesti. mintea mea nu reuseste sa cuprinda necuprinsul mortii si se comporta ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. faptul ca reusim sa supravietuim celor pe care ii iubim, ca nu murim o data cu ei, de durerea pierderii lor, ca nu incremenim in absurdul disparitiei lor mi se pare indecent si grotesc. suntem incapabili sa privim in fata adevarul brutal al mortii: nu existam. la scara timpului, a vesniciei, mai mult nu suntem decat suntem. specie deplorabila, zeii au stiut ca trebuie sa ne protejeze de trauma acestui adevar crud punand o pacla pe constiinta noastra. mistificam. inventam povesti care sa ne anestezieze durerea. ingerasi. stelute pe cer de unde, chipurile, cei plecati ne privesc cu seninatate. raiuri convenabile. nu suntem departe de primatele de care vorbeam. ne purtam mortii in continuare dupa noi ca si cum nu s-a intamplat nimic. daca ne-am ridica cu adevarat la inaltimea chemarii noastre si am intelege absurdul pe care il aduce moartea am cadea la pamant trazniti, pe loc. ne-am alatura astfel celor disparuti.