The Death Dealer

You’ve heard it all before. “Praying for those who’ve lost a loved one this year and this is their first Holiday without them” or “praying for those who are estranged from their family” or “praying for those going through hard time”. I would like to start out by saying I am not a complete Scrooge; I do not turn away prayers or the Good Will of Hearts. But I will say it is exhausting.

I’m exhausted from hearing the “Sorry for your loss” and the “they were a great person” or, the most cliché “they are in a better place now”. These words are meaningless. They’ve been beaten to a pulp and laid out in the Sun for the Vultures of Society to pick away at when the unfortunateness of Life knocks on someone’s door. I’ve lived in exhaustion since I was about 6. And then relapsed at 15. And then again at 20. And 21. And now at 23. When will it stop?

“Never,” a whisper that chills my nerves like whiskey on the rocks. It will never be enough. Pain will never cease. Life will continue on long after your miserable Death. So cruel. So sad. So sickening. So real.

You see, I’m a bit of a Melancholic: I have an addiction for grief, sadness and the Existential. It’s been my coping mechanism for as long as I could remember. A prescription drug that as soon I feel I’ve finished my recommended dosage for whatever pain Life has decided to inflict me with, I get a re-up: a good ol’ kickstart from yet another infection. New wounds that heal but never leave me quite the same.

Death will never leave things quite the same. When my grandparents died when I was 15, things were never the same. Christmas wasn’t as magical. The nights I spent watching “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown” with my gramps, or decorating the tree with my grams, making sure the Angel was centered just right and all the personal ornaments were accounted for. Watching my family gather around the tree and open Christmas presents and eat our weight in good ol’Caribbean food. The fighting, or quarreling as my grandparents put it, that echoed through the foyer, and the earth-trembling, rough-housing between my siblings and I, and the constant whistle of ass-whoopings we (mostly me) received. Gone. Burned and reverted to nostalgic ash for me to do lines of whenever I needed a quick fix of Pain. If Pain is my drug, Death is my Dealer.

So am I a functioning Melancholic? Or a masochist? Or just outright psychotic? Yes, of course I am. I have to be to enjoy the source of Pain: the Pleasure. The Pleasures of Life are far more delicious and savory than the quick fixes of Pain. Pleasure is a current, Pain is a jolt. When we think of our Pain inflicted upon us by the loss of a Loved one, we don’t miss any superficial emotion such as jealousy, or hate; we think of Love, and all the Pleasures of Love that came from knowing this person. When I think of my grandparents, when I truly remember and let my feelings wring the core of Being; I think of how much I loved them, and them me. I think about these intimate moments of bliss, when they weren’t just my grandparents, but just people who loved me dearly. I think the same about my father, and the moments he looked at me with tenderness and compassion, and told me how much he loved me. How beautiful I was. How proud he was of me.

These are some of the brief Pleasures we miss the most. The intimate ones where it was just two people, two Beings, that just loved each other. Without question or reason. “What is grief, if not Love persevering?” Maybe this addiction isn’t to the grief, but to the Love lost. The Love that is still very much needed, like insulin to a diabetic. The Love that is still beating in my chest, pumping itself with my Essence, with no one to give it to. Pleasures of Life that seek the Pain of Death to take me to the ones I Love. Sweet Ferryman, take my coin.

So please, during this Holiday season, do not pity those who long for others beyond the Veil of Our Perception. Do not send messages regarding Pain & Pleasures you cannot understand. Do not speak on behalf of Life, for it has millions of ways to speak; but not through words. Please let us have our silence, so we can relive those memories that seem to fade in the distant crevices of our Minds as we chase after new Pleasures. Let us contemplate the pretty little lines we’ve drawn of Nostalgia before we take take that head-banging Big Sniff that riffs us into oblivion. Let us pick at the Pain of wounds that have crusted over our skin so we can remember what this perseverance is for.

Sh.

Do not deny us our Dealer. Do not deny Death. Do not forget the Pain & Pleasure.

Photo: Sofia Loren, photographer Kadeem Barnett ( IG: @kadreaming )