
I don’t need to talk about viruses, the Stock Market, the mortality rates, our general unpreparedness, the global recession, or the statistics regarding who is more likely to get infected, get sick, or die. You have all been inundated by virus news for days, and it will continue for weeks. I want to talk about something else: reality and our fear of the truth.
From the day we are born, the day we are conceived, we sign a contract with death. Everything that takes material form will die. We will all die, and all of our loved ones will die; it’s not a matter of if, but when, and how. When I choose to get up in the morning and drive on Los Angeles freeways, I take the risk that I may not make it to my destination or back home. After three car accidents in six months (one was my responsibility; the other two happened when the driver behind me was distracted by their phone and slammed into my stopped car), I am very aware–hyper aware–that every trip out might be my last.
I have survived multiple surgeries, countless infections, accidents, and random ‘conditions’. I am aware that I might not survive the Corona virus, and my parents might not, either. I understand that if we all survive this virus, another might come along that is far worse. Or, my father could be hit by a car while riding his bicycle down Edwards Hill. My mother might fall again, and this time not miss the curb by millimeters. Your life, your existence, is under threat every second of every day of your life.
It is our nature as human beings to do everything possible to stay alive. It is our imperative as species. I will take all the Coronovirus precautions, just as I wear my seat belt, drive the speed limit, and go to the doctor when my breathing is labored or a cut looks like it’s becoming infected. I walk on the side of the road and carry an electrified walking stick to ward off packs of coyotes and mountain lions in the hills by my house. I don’t climb trees anymore, and I always wash my hands. I don’t wear slippery shoes in the rain or climb rocks in sandals. When I saw a rattlesnake right in front of me a few weeks ago, I slowly backed away instead of trying to pick it up. And yet, for all these precautions, for all the ways in which I try to maximize my survival in the world, I know that the rattlesnake might strike; the car might be crumpled into a metal ball in spite of my seat belt and law-abiding speed; the mountain lion that crossed the road in front of me could decide, the next time, to grab my throat; the next infection might kill me if my body doesn’t react to the strongest of antibiotics; the fall could happen, even wearing my hiking boots. And, I might pick up Coronavirus and be one of the unlucky few whose respiratory system can’t fight it off. I might die on a respirator in a foreign hospital.
We don’t like to think about these basic truths, so we cover them up with distractions: social media, Internet browsing and information hoarding, shopping for things we don’t need, preparing for the Apocalypse, eating, searching out soulmates or sex partners, drinking, taking pills, or watching hours of mindless television. There are as many ways to distract ourselves as there are ways to die. Counting ways to die or calculating our personal risk of death from the latest virus is another distraction.
Our time on Earth is limited. Some of us have only hours or moments to live; others, many decades. The final destination is always the same, however, and most of us will not be ready for it. For all the focus on how we could die in this latest crisis–from the illness itself, or as a result of the economic collapse that is just as horrifyingly spectacular–we don’t talk about how we are supposed to live. And oh, how I wish that I could tell you how to live. But I cannot. I can only tell you how I try to live.
A professional in the mental health field noticed that I was someone out of place in terms of my culture, and that I have a rather interesting ability to forecast coming events of large, social significance. I have certain psychic abilities that are a direct result of a high level of sensitivity. My ‘problems’ might stem from seeing things differently and sensing realities that are not clear and obvious to others. The result is, I tend to live in places we call the ‘past’ and the ‘future’ even more than the average soul. And, there is precious little cultural or social support for someone like me, who lives with the anxiety of what is to come. I am either ridiculed or ignored when I attempt to share how I perceive reality. But I have learned a couple of things along the way that might be useful to others.
Even if you sense the future, you cannot live there. The more that you try to predict exactly what is going to happen, the worse you will feel. You can make informed decisions in the present moment; but the present moment is the only absolute reality. We can make predictions based on the best available information, and we can adjust our behavior accordingly. However: the essential fact is, we cannot live anywhere but where we are right now. The present moment is always, by its very nature, easier to manage than attempting to live in the future and control outcomes. Living in the present moment means accepting what you do not know and what you cannot control.
If that upsets you because you need to know now, you need to control the outcome now, and you must understand all the consequences of all possible actions right now, you will suffer.
That suffering is the enemy of health. It is unnecessary. Tracking daily deaths from the Coronavirus or any other pathogen lurking out there is pointless on an individual level; if you work at the CDC or are an infectious disease specialist, then yes, you need to know. For the rest of us, counting bodies and serious illnesses and watching the Dow Jones Industrial Average as it rises and falls (and falls, and falls) is a recipe for severe anxiety. Decisions that we make while under the influence of severe anxiety are not likely to be wise or caring.
Let me repeat that: decisions that you make while panicking will not be considered, wise, or compassionate. Knee-jerk reactions to fear will place a greater burden on your friends, family, and community. Worst case scenarios are fictions until they actually play out. Yes, go ahead, plan for the worst-case scenario, but don’t live there. Don’t behave as if we are there already. When the media started talking about a 500 year drought in California, I was sick over that possibility for months. That was a worst case scenario that did not happen. This time, of course, there is wisdom in preparing for the worst; however, watch out for your mental health if you act as if a hypothetical future were already here, happening to you right now.
Our minds can destroy us if we allow it; our sensitivities, whether they manifest as a ‘disorder’ or as an ability to see clearly what is coming, or to peer into other worlds or dimensions, can either be a gift or a curse. No matter what you think you know about the future of humanity, trust me, you can’t know everything. You can’t know what you can’t see or understand. Everyone has blind spots; I can often see the emotional fallout of a future event, but I don’t know how that event is going to unfold.
Our lives are marked and defined by uncertainty, chaos, unpredictability, and a lack of control. Effective action for ourselves and others depends on whether we see that as a curse or as offering us the limitless potential of absolute freedom. Freedom requires we lose the fear of death. Prepare to live, but do not fear death. This is where your beliefs, your understandings, will determine your mental health. Do you know that your material life is only part of the equation? Do you know that life continues in a different form? Or do you believe that this material existence, filled with dread and fear, is the best that we can hope for? Your answer to this will depend on your experiences. Or, perhaps your answer comes from faith.
One way or the other, make friends with Death. For that is the only doorway to another life, another understanding, another opportunity for renewal and redemption.
–Kirsten A. Thorne, PhD