The Fear Of Death

Expressing the fear of death is pointless. Which is why I refuse to see another psychologist. For a while, I waived between being afraid to die, disgusted that I was afraid, humiliated, and then suicidal.

If others can't see the threat themselves, they say it's not there. There's no empathy because to empathize is to be afraid to die too. To be swallowed up, perhaps, in that delusion.

Evolution, if anything, protects us from that. And, in a way, kills us faster in some cases.

Modern psychology and the DSM says, we get to decide which bear is real and which bear is fake.

I wrote about this more in my other blog, but found that people still read it, and when I wrote to them, found that they commented to me in emails on the entries. I found that strange. Why read it? If you're not going to believe it (aka, the threat is real). Or why write to me at all?

My crime is even worse, if Randy is RAndy, always and no one else, am I not the biggest asshole on the planet? Knowingly doing what I do? Because I always retain logic and reason, the anti-delusion. Perhaps he just forgot.

What he was wearing during sex. Perhaps the rest of it was sound effects over the phone, over the months. Perhaps the rest of it was a big fucking bad set of coincidences. Perhaps in six more months, the initials on my shower will magically disappear. Like the fucking hacker HPV. Someday, I will test negative. All will be gone.