Buried alive

I’ve always had two insurmountable fears. First is the fear of drowning, and second is the fear of being buried alive. When I was a kid I was deathly afraid of dying in a falling elevator but I outgrew that for some reason. Lately though I have been feeling like I have been buried alive. Trapped in a dark, silent coffin in a concrete burial vault beneath six feet of cold, hard dirt. I can kick, I can scream until my tonsils bleed (oh wait, I don’t have any tonsils), I can pound and scratch until my fingers are bloodied and all that I can do is just wait for the oxygen to deplete and the growing feeling of hot, sweaty suffocation.

I am at a fork in the road. It’s likely the last one I will ever face. I chose the path but now I am buried under all the things I need to do to move forward. I am not the sort of person that can move forward by taking things one step at a time. I do that for a while, but then I stumble – I lose momentum and begin putting things off. “There is always tomorrow…” but not when health fails or money runs out. Deadlines close in and choke me and that just serves to make me stuck and immobilized even more. It’s a fucking curse.

I’m not particularly lazy, except for the lack of ability from health issues. And I’m not stupid. I have many diverse skills – too many to list. I’m not bragging; that in and of itself can be a weakness because I bore easily and I will go nuts if I focus on or do just one thing. Consequently, even the things I have become very, very good at I could do a hell of a lot better. You know, “Jack of all trades, master of none.” And it is all because I set off on thousand mile journeys with only 900 miles worth of gas in my tank.

So here I sit, day after day, under my tree in the forest, loaded rifle in hand surrounded by prized game with the sun setting and I can’t pull the fucking trigger. It’s partly because I’ve had the gun blow up in my face so many times I feel predestined to fail. I’ve been slapped down so many times I expect it. It’s really damned hard to push ahead with something important when I’ve spent the last ten years of my life being forced to incinerate and dispense with most of the things that were ever dear to me, knowing I’ll never have those things again. I’ll likely never write and perform music again. I won’t ever be able to walk on the beach or experience the peace and solitude of camping in the middle of nowhere. I’ll never again have the touch and companionship of someone I deeply love. Never again will I have the joy of cooking an incredible meal for others or helping a family in hardship by repairing a leaking roof or a broken car. I will never again feel the thrill of building and driving a car that will pull off a 7 second quarter mile or fly an airplane. I will never climb another mountain.

I know, most will say “If you’ve already done all those thongs then be content with the memories.” Maybe I’m just a blithering asshole – most of my memories serve only as reminders of what I no longer have. And then there are so many others worse off than I am that are content or that can still do something worthwhile with their lives. That is when I truly know how completely worthless I really am.

Oy.