For reasons I can’t properly explain, this series of posts on The Dish has forced me to post this–for the future record if need be, to put it cryptically. I honestly never thought I would see this subject publicly discussed, since it is so hard to wrap the brain around it but…anyway:
… I would imagine her just out of my vision, fixing a meal in the kitchen or reading a book in the bedroom, and think that this is how our lives could have been. I would try to shut it down the way I would when infinity nightmares overtook my head at night, pounding my fists in the bed and sometimes yelling out loud in the empty room to no one, but the wave would pass and the next day I would wonder why I had gotten so worked up.
“How often do you have these nightmares?†asked the doctor that I saw back then, a kind old Jewish man who—it was obvious—didn’t really understand anything I said.
“Which nightmares?†I responded, trying to get him to repeat what I said. “Infinity nightmares.†No one wanted to talk about them, even the shrinks. “You have no answer for them, do you?†I said.
He looked at me sadly. “An answer for them is not what you need.â€
But I kept at him. “There are no pills for it. There’s no cure. Unless it all turns to black, there is no answer. Is there?â€
“What do you think?†he said, barely hiding his exasperation.
“I think you’re in denial. I think that you ignore the reality.â€
“Which reality is that?â€
“That we are spinning around in circles and even if it all explodes we’ll still be floating in emptiness. That life is endless. That god doesn’t exist. That this is random.â€
He sighed heavily. “Perhaps we can prescribe a relaxant…â€
This is how it went. I would call him out on his “existential ignorance†and he would sigh and filibuster, but it didn’t make me any better in the long run. I went back once more and he controlled the topic, steering me away from universal misery and back to my own personal depression.
“Have you thought about Winifred lately?â€
“Fuck her,†I said and he smiled. Cured!
— DFH