Being the capricious *crazyhead* that I can be, I think different things at different times. Sometimes I find myself fascinated by the subject, especially when I have an acute flair-up from my chronic trauma brain and I’m unable to find even a moment of relief, mentally or physically. It’s in those moments I wonder what it’s like to be ‘dead’.
No one really knows, right?
No one comes back after dying and says “Hey – I was dead for 3 days and death is like club med!” No one ever gets a postcard from someone who died that reads, “It’s hot ~ bring a fan."
You don’t get an itinerary emailed to you a week prior to your death.
… there’s nothing ‘helpful’ so you can be ‘prepared’.
Last week's conversation between the therapist and the crazy brain which played out something like this:
Crazybrain: Sometimes I think I’d like to die because I just need it to stop.
The therapist: What do you think it’s like after you die?
Crazybrain: Quiet…nothing. I don’t really believe in reincarnation (I don’t think) but I can’t imagine death is worse than living like this.
The therapist: But you don’t know that…what if death is worse than life? What if it’s worse?
Crazybrain: I don’t think it’s worse. (at this point, Crazybrain goes way off into left field, as she often does…) I sometimes think my dog is my grandfather reincarnated. He seems really sensitive to my feelings and always tries to comfort me when I’m sad or troubled. (of course, this statement was made AFTER Crazybrain told the therapist that she didn’t think she believed in reincarnation. (Told ya ~ Crazybrain’s thinking pattern can sometimes be a bit erratic.)..I may have also said something to the effect of having a séance (in a joking kinda way).
The therapist: (always trying to follow Crazybrain’s lead...not always easy) …Yeah, pets are sensitive to human emotions.
So last night I was once again contemplating what it’s like to be dead (this was after cleaning my closet and finding a bottle of vicodin left over from a broken bone ~ no ~ I did not take the vicodin). Anyway, reflecting back to the conversation with the therapist, Crazybrain was somewhat troubled that the therapist actually thought death could be more painful than life, and she picked up the phone, dialed the therapist’s number and left a message about how it is really distressing that the therapist thinks death could be worse than living like *this* ~ and that she, Crazybrain, did not believe that could possibly be true! Yeah, um, your guess as to why this surfaced last night is as good as mine ~ I suspect it had something to do with the vicodin….but I’m still not sure).
A couple of hours later, the therapist sent an email (it was Friday ~ so current *standard* protocal between therapist and Crazybrain). And in her email, she wrote, “I heard from your voice mail this evening that you are fighting another night and that you are angry that I remain in question as to what the quality of life will be like after death (better or worse, etc.). This is simply my view and of course does not have to be yours.”
At the time of receipt, Crazybrain had already traveled to far into crazyworld and was not really in a position read and absorb what the therapist had said in her email; but this morning, while Crazybrain was still asleep, I read what the therapist wrote and it struck me funny: The quality of *life* after death?
What if it's like an eternity of downloading episodes of Hannah Montana on my daughter's IPOD? Crap!