a sick fuck
My therapist asked me today if there were any specific days that reminded me of Nick, other than his birthday and the day he died. Ironically, Halloween is undoubtely the answer. And as I stumbled through explaining myself, I muttered something vague about him loving horror, having a spooky vibe and dressing goth adjacent.
I had made a joke about death as I often do, and we entered a conversation about how that might be perceived by someone else. I admitted I could understand why that could be categorized as sociopathic behaviour. But as death is a part of life, I felt like death is its own entity — it’s the counterbalance. If we can laugh about life, then surely we could laugh about death.
My first fall in the city, my friends and I joined the Toronto Zombie Walk — an event that’s pretty self explanatory, an open call for people to dress up as zombies and roam the streets in a semi-organized but steady shuffle. At the time, I lived in a less than ideal neighbourhood with more than a few interesting characters.
We left my apartment, donning our grungy make-up, ripped attire and props that included bloody limbs, brains, other zombie-related items, and headed to the meeting point; a brisk walk away from my apartment as we get accosted by an elderly man in a wheelchair yelling profanities at us. This was within the first two months of me moving to the city, I was still startled and taken aback by his behaviour but in my particularly colourful neighbourhood it was not too out of character.
In truth, I don’t know why it stuck with me but it did — there was something so gut wrenching about his anger, it felt so personally directed at us as he yelled and referred to us as “sick fucks” which I felt was wildly out of place as we were just on our way to enjoy our silly little zombie parade.
It took me until that evening to understand our sheer ignorance. From where I stood, we were partaking in a relatively PG event that allowed us to embrace our youthful silliness, love for dressing up and each other’s company.
What I hadn’t pieced together is truly mortifying ; the elderly man was a double amputee, and I hadn’t accounted for how truly triggering a group of young adults holding various bloody limbs midday could be for someone in his position. What is the statistical likeliness of something like this happening, and how cosmically cruel?
As genuinely terrible as I felt about it, I couldn’t help but see the sick dark humour in it all.
On a personal level, one of the primary reasons I’ve sought the help from my current therapist was to curtail and/or overcome my PTSD. (I’m not sure which yet, we’re still working on it — stay tuned). Seven months ago, one of my worst fears had been confirmed.
I’ve since become aware of my triggers: a very specific cool temperature and dark shadows.
written April 1st 2022
In the cat-walk next to my house, I remember feeling such a sense of calm and striking awareness, which was surprising to me at the moment considering how drunk I was at the moment. I incorrectly attributed that to being “in the moment” and “having gratitude for life”, which isn’t necessarily untrue. In retrospect, it’s interesting how your brain immortalizes certain moments. Whether it’s a sick act of remembering a moment before your life goes to shit, before you’re forever changed and it imprints the very last instant before one of the most traumatic moments of your life.
I turned the corner in the walk-way of our home and saw a lump of leather — oddly, a lump of leather I recognized. […]
I knew. I knew from the moment I touched him, and I felt a part of me dissociate — everything from that moment after felt like a dream. I went from being so drunk and elated to the most sober and aware, but through a fog. It had been a lovely March day, warm but nippy. I wore a short American Apparel skater dress in houndstooth, and black thigh- high socks to work and by the time I walked home, it was definitely crispy outside as the slightest snowflakes were seemingly suspended, but slowly descended.
A cold that would normally annoy me by the end of March, but I felt oddly appreciative about it on my walk home. It was cold, but not that cold.
a very specific cool temperature and dark shadows.
I still unconsciously whip my neck and examine any dark shadows that get caught in my peripheral vision — a habit I’ve adopted but hopefully not forever. I suppose I subconsciously need to verify that there aren’t any bodies being neglected in those areas.
It’s getting increasingly more prevalent, as October weather is crispy and alarmingly similar to the temperature on April 1st. I’m consciously doing my best to work through the PTSD, although I’m still fucking terrified, but this month in particularly I’ve been faced with new challenges.
new fear unlocked
Halloween had been my favourite “holiday” for a while; the decor, the costumes, the parties — I revelled in it. It also marked the day when the portal between realms thinned for a brief window, in pagan lore. Naturally, these beliefs have since been bastardized by some combination of colonization, christianity, and capitalism.
Now our North American homes are decorated with dollarama webs, black garbage bags stuffed to resemble fake giant spiders, carved pumpkins, tombstones, you name it. I used to look forward to it every year.
This year however, it’s taken a remarkable turn.
I have become alarmingly aware of how common it is to decorate one’s front lawn with a tombstone or corpse, how much black garbage bags could resemble a lump of leather, nor did I know that a body bag is a very particular pumpkin orange until a few months ago.
The imagery of the lawn tombstone echoing the figurative tombstone that is the threshold of our home, where he took his last breaths — a thought that crosses my mind every time I step through the doorway, a portal of realms dare I say.
Oh what fun to turn my favourite holiday into a month long PTSD trigger zone for me personally. The universe really is a sick fuck.
happy halloween, nick.
you can haunt me anytime.
