Fear of Losing Control

July 20, 2014

Why, when I feel it’s such a futile exercise am I driven to write? It’s so much in my blood and soul that it’ unbearable not to write. I know there will be no future readers. I know all my journals will be piles of ashes within weeks of my passing. No one will care what I wrote.

But I must write. I can’t help myself.

Winston Churchill said it was only when he was writing that he didn’t feel the presence of the black dog, his description of depression. I would hope writing would comfort me in this way as a borough into these pages, looking for solace as the words appear on this page. I want to hide behind the words and peek around the corners, but there is no hiding from this life.

I have so seriously thought about death that I’ve compiled a list, in my head, of the pros and cons of life versus death. I haven’t written those down, and probably never will, for your sake, but I often wonder if all this is worth the trouble? I want to live a long time so I can acquire as much of my Social Security payments as possible, and leave Dan and Rachel with an abundant inheritance.

But I’ve thought of many other ways to use the money. I will be getting $1,450 a month, that will go into my US Bank account. I will also be drawing $450 each month to my credit union bank account.

I would love to give my money to worthy causes. I feel such a relief to be helping someone else through their suffering or worries. I knew this couple and toddler were well prepared for their dinner, and could have paid it or they wouldn’t have come. But my heart went out to them, saw how darling it was that their daughter couldn’t decide who to sit next to for dinner, so was climbing over their laps, walking to the other side of the table, and climbing up again. The mother was quite plain looking, long brown hair recently curled and a pleasant smile. Her husband stood out for his red hair and striking blue eyes, although he wasn’t particularly handsome, but his coloring was appealing.

Steven Bell was a friend of mine in San Mateo when I was in fourth grade, and midyear his father decided they would move to Alaska. I never saw him again. But my memories of his red hair, blue eyes and extremely freckled skin became something I admired, as I had  befriended Steven. Whether it was nostalgia or the desire to lead a r different life….perhaps both of them. I threw a dart at Steven and it hit his neck while he was pulling out darts and he wheeled around to yell “Why did you do that?” At the time I just said I felt like it, which I ‘m sure didn’t endear him to me. I have thought of him often over the years, wondering where he is and how his life is proceeding, how much his coloring has changed, whether he has a family, what his children look like.

The response I had to Steven’s anger has bothered me for much of my lifetime. The fact that “I felt like it” is a horribly misguided thought that portends to irrational control. I recall a news article where a boy was asked why he had pushed his brother, causing him to fall over the side of the boat, get caught in the current, and drowned. I imagi ne he thought it would be funny, without thinking of the horrid consequences. When his brother went overboard, to catch himself he grabbed at another boy, also standing. Both died, while the younger brother was now left to tend the current, screaming at what had happened, in shock that everything changed so suddenly. Just that little push, where he thought it would be funny, ended up in the deaths of his brother and best friend.

That is a scary thought that haunts me. I have had impulsive thoughts. I stay as far away from cliffs as I can, or any high places, balconies in hotels, views from restaurants, when I am accompanied. I’m afraid I would have destructive desires. When I can’t control myself is when I fear for my life. I gambled for over a year, spending at least $30,000 in retirement savings, and having nothing to show for it other than haunting regrets over my addiction, led by compulsions that I thought were uncontrollable. Even today I would get in my car and drive to a casino just to feel the surge of adrenaline in anticipation of winning jackpots.  I was addicted to that flood of overwhelming adrenaline, which required me to spend even more money and take more chances every time I would go.

Several years ago I gave two casinos paperwork to bar me from entering. Even with that request, a letter came a month later asking if the barring of my presence was permanent. I fretted over this, and still do, realizing that I’d cut myself off from an entertainment that made me forget everything else. In front of the slot machine, sometimes running two at once, I didn’t think about my worries, my job, my relationships or, for that matter, my savings. My delight was too great.